


Unleavened

by tenpointson



Series: The Calamity is Calling [3]
Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Angst, Anxiety, Blood and Gore, By the Three Sheik has a Mouth, Classism, Cultural Differences, Euphemisms, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Graphic Violence, Homophobia, Hyperbole, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Institutionalized Violence, Internalized Homophobia, Internalized racism, Male Sheik (Legend of Zelda), Multi, Not Beta Read, Oral Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prostitution, Racism, Sarcasm, Slang, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Trans Female Character, Unacknowledged Self-Harm, Unfortunate Implications, Unreliable Narrator, Violence, manual sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-01-03 11:55:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 32
Words: 192,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21179015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenpointson/pseuds/tenpointson
Summary: Part Two of The Calamity is Calling main story arc. A Modern AU LoZ story. Now that the Calamity as struck, what's a burgeoning Hero to do?The title is an awful pun, but accurate in describing the contents. Not for the faint of heart. Please read the warnings both in the tags and at the start of every chapter, as well as Part One - Of Cake and Calamity - just to have some background characterizations and relationships in mind.





	1. A Power, Absolute

**Author's Note:**

> Part Two. Most chapters will follow the same format as Part One, with Sheik narrating odd chapters and Link narrating even chapters, though this first chapter is an exception.
> 
> TW: heavy racism, condescension, regicide, multiple minor character murders, graphic violence, misanthropy, rape, hostile military invasion, betrayal, gore
> 
> ...if I missed any warnings because of reasons of screaming into the void due to editing this chapter, PLEASE tell me and I will edit to correct. Dx

No matter how many luncheons he attended, he would never understand these shallow, ignorant buffoons, or their incessant need for endless prattle. Each one of the gatherings they’d played host to had neither the displays of class nor the authoritative decrees that would befit a king, no matter how petty or fatuous that king was.

What was the point of accumulating power, wealth, and prestige if you never _used_ it? Never showed off, even a little? Never helped out a friend when they were down on their luck, or an enemy who would then owe you a favor? Never…enjoyed it? If you could afford it, why choose between the steak and the lobster when you could have both? When you had it all, why conceal it? The masses needed something to strive for, so why not lead by example and be the pinnacle of success they so desired to emulate?

Why present others of similar station a single serving of common fowl over cheap entertainment and accompanied by merely acceptable wine? Why give the same to their servants and chattel, prattle over inconsequential philosophies, and defer to simple _animals_ in matter of policy? Why submit to _policy_ at all? A monarch _ruled_. They did not _administer_. By the One God, they did not _encourage_ such _filth_ to…

He breathed, and smiled at the one staring at him, though he would rather break her neck and leave her body for the flies. There was decorum to maintain, and a much larger hunt on the wind. One too precipitous to be distracted from, especially to engage with a trifling pleasure.

It was of no consequence. Those enlightened few that saw the Hyrule family for the charlatans they were knew what true _power_ was capable of. They had taken in the best arts, participated in the best sport, slept in the best beds, and eaten the best meats directly from the palm of his hand like the dogs they were. The rest…well, they too would come to understand. With the rising of the Blood Moon, they too, would know the bliss of a strong ruler, a strong country, a strong people. Together. United under one man and one God for the betterment of all.

It was only a matter of time. These travesties of the Goddess’ bloodline remained willfully ignorant. Their sentinels blinded and fettered. The sacrifices had been arranged. The vessels gathered. The players assembled. As unsatisfying as the pathetic gathering tonight had been, it _had _served its purpose. He knew now, with the utmost certainty, that his puppets would be more than sufficient in carrying out their purpose. He’d chosen his tools well.

And, if they failed, there were enough of them that the failures could still serve as an example. He’d eliminated the one _true_ threat to his success over a decade ago, and there were two opportunities remaining to consolidate his claim to the Relic readily available and ripe for the plucking. Their vaunted, near mythological defense system was undemanding to overcome and, frankly, exceedingly boring. An extra set of hands, and one could even use the same blade to cut through both the coarse peel and delicate fruit it contained.

No sport at all.

Oh, he was certain that there would be pleading, and begging, and at least one escape attempt to quash. History had shown that there always was, and always would be. The ending of an empire was ever predictable, no matter how vaunted. Even for one such as he was creating. The one he would rule until the day a man of even greater power took control of all he had amassed. That eventual truth didn’t matter – for he’d be dead of his wounds – and the glorious battle between them that brought about his demise would be truly epic. There would be such a one, for he was not immortal. Not yet. If the tales of the Hyrulean Relic proved true, however, eventually he would need to find a new source of entertainment.

String instruments and idle chatter had never been sufficient, and while there was an art to the physicality required of sport, artificial constraints of rules and regulations took all joy and sense of accomplishment from any victory. Pure, wild, utterly _free_ challenge was what he craved. Winning on a technicality would always fall short. Yet another reason tonight had been such a disappointment. Not one of them – the weak shepherds or their vacant eyed sheep – had noticed that that fool Ghirahim was following _his_ lead, and not the other way around.

Fools, the lot of them. His puppet had done well, though, and deserved a prize for his performance. Perhaps the younger princess’ well-muscled arm candy. Ghirahim did have a penchant for the males, after all. Enjoyed his power over them. Enjoyed their pain. It made him easier to reward, easier to predict, and easier to control. Knowing a man’s desire meant knowing his weakness, and most of these small minded men were pathetically simple.

He…had more complicated tastes. Ones that awaited him as soon as his absence from the sham celebration would not be noted, and after a brief trip in an appropriately appointed vehicle that he’d had to requisition himself. The expense was preposterous, but nothing was quite as good as the rarest Dodongo leather seats, or a proper combustion engine’s growl. The leaving took longer than travel thanks to the bowing dance of enforced respect and the obsequious fawning towards artificial authority required by the very buffoons who had the gall to feed him fowl. A man needed meat, needed to taste blood between his teeth, and a wine strong enough to match to be satisfied.

It was well that he had his own festivities to attend in accordance with the calendar’s inevitable progression towards his God’s return. For that, he’d chosen his food almost as well as his toys, and his toys almost as well as his dogs. Playing with the newest had taken most of the remaining daylight before the moon could rise blood red.

“Don’t move.” He instructed. This…this was more like it. The skill – the _control_ – needed was meticulous and demanding of both prey and predator, and his prey this time was so very, very good. They had been at it for _hours._ Carefully, with hard won precision, he avoided the omohyoid muscle, separating skin and flesh, and folded back the neatly cut section to view the large vein as it pulsed in time with his prey’s rapidly beating heart. One wrong stroke of the blade at even a fraction of a millimeter would…

…mean he would need to change his clothes. Again. Curse this frigid northern climate to the depths of the Fissure and back! Breaking the social taboo of casual nudity had always worked in his favor, intimidating rivals and allies alike. He enjoyed that. Intimidating lovers as well, though he understood they were just as much impressed by his physique. Tall, and powerfully built, he knew that – through years of effort and no small part of clandestine and occult magic – he had given himself the ideal male form.

Now spattered with the lifeblood of yet another rival turned trophy. It had been a good hunt, lasting years, and such marvellous prey, with lands along the border that he would need for the third phase of acquisition. From within this resource-rich country, accessing the provincial borders had been child’s play, but from without…only the most impetuous of the feathered pests would have the temerity to try the steep cliffs with their uncertain winds and crown of jagged shale tors. It wasn’t a battle that was worth the effort, though the Keep itself was magnificently designed and nearly impenetrable.

The lands were one thing, but the Keep was an essential strategic point in his conquest. One with a pretty whore of a wife and prettier slut of a daughter set to inherit, now that the body was nearly finished twitching. The wife wasn’t entirely too old to give him another son, though the daughter was on the cusp of being too young. And if the child was a dud, or a daughter, well, he could always use the power bought from blood, potential, and the sacrifice of something close to oneself.

Whichever one of them managed to serve their purpose first would get to live to see his first and only acceptable child _administrate_ those lands, while he _ruled_ the country as it was meant to be ruled. Completely and utterly, beneath a strong hand and stronger will.

The decision was an easy one to make as the older woman obviously knew how to go about it, and wouldn’t take as long or need to be guided through the process. Ghirahim’s audience with the fatuous King and frail Queen didn’t start for another half hour, and wouldn’t last much longer than that again. Then it would be time for the Revelation, and the Resurgence. With only an hour, he would wash his face and deal with the daughter, moving on to the mother if time permitted.

The only challenge with that was in maintaining his focus. Even the ugliest sand-rat was more entertaining, for every desert rose had both bitter thorns and a wicked bite. The sheltered lives each of these northern snowflakes lead meant that the only prick they had was the one he gave them, and their caterwauling was growing increasingly tedious. If it weren’t for the rich power they held, waiting to be reaped, they would have no purpose. There would be no point in trying to train them to the yoke of true labor after his conquest was complete. It may be simpler to just kill them all. Time would tell.

Finished with the both of the frail pure-bloods, the rightful King of Hyrule left them to serve his guards’ pleasure and took himself to the shower. He was unpleasantly sticky, for all the getting sticky had been moderately enjoyable. Like scratching an unremarkable itch. None of them had even put up a token struggle. It was disappointing, if typical of these backward, weak, pathetic affronts to Hylia’s glory. The ones that rejected their true calling. He hoped the Royals at least provided some sport, but wasn’t anticipating it. This country’s people had been enough of a disappointment already.

They didn’t. His entourage – including the two Hyrulean nobles his son’s age that had answered his call to arms – arrived earlier than expected, their task for the night complete. Or mostly complete. There were seven bags, but only two prisoners in shackles instead of the anticipated four; the elder princess and her soon-to-be-annulled spouse. A quick check confirmed both the former King and former Queen were among the deceased, so the most crucial elements of the first phase had been successful, but not all.

“Where is the younger princess?” His son had wanted that one as soon as he was finished with her. Questioning the men responsible – as well as their own followers and chattel – would show him which ones were at fault, which ones would make excuses, and which ones he would send to rectify the problem. He had other engagements to attend, and could not bear to linger in such foul squalor as the best of these barbarians could supposedly provide.

"E-escaped, m-my l-lord.” One of the followers of the second Hyrulean to come to his banner stuttered. Courageous enough to speak out of turn, though obviously too terrified to do so at all well. Weak.

Better than his master. That one hadn’t even accompanied his men for the hunt. He nodded to himself, noting where the flaw was, even though the man took the motion as an indicator to continue and babbled out the whole scattered tale. The stench of urine wafted through the air, but that mess – like the rest – could be tended to later. Perhaps by the man’s commander himself, before he joined in the upcoming sacrifice personally.

“Is that all you know?” He growled once the man finished.

“Y-yes sir!” The whimper was convincing, but…he glanced at one of his most prized tools to date.

“Truth.” The Lady of Shadows nodded.

“Very well. What say you, my Lord?” Perhaps the informant’s commander had valid reason to decline his participation in their historic victory…

“My apologies, my Lord. We both know this fool should have pursued the younger princess and her haunts instead of returning empty-handed. I shall see that he is demoted at once. Your court is no place for cowards who count their lives more precious that the cause.” …perhaps not.

“Indeed. I do have no use for cowards.” He murmured, picking up the discarded scalpel. It was still sharp, still serviceable. This one was not, no better than an unsightly blemish of uncontrolled growth. A cancer within the greater body of his servants and slaves. “I have no use for any who would defer to their subordinates’ mewling. No use for cowards who have never met their prey in battle. No _use_ for those who dare not stare into the whites of their enemies’ eyes as they feel their blades bite deep, hear the last cries of a mortal soul, and taste the rich salt of life’s blood upon their tongue. They are not fit for my sword.”

Excising the faulty portion took but a moment, and did not require a more honorable blade than the simple tool in his hand. Just…precision, and the power to see it through, though this man’s last cry was more of a gurgle. He would need to bathe again, and someone would have to deal with the puddle.

Both puddles. They were an offense to proper civility, and by the One God he would not deign to allow even his temporary residence to wallow in the same filth as the rest of this miserable city.

He wiped the scalpel off on his pant leg and returned it to the table, then retrieved his wireless presenter. The cartoon pig sticker on the handle was quite the caricature, and provided fleeting amusement each time he saw it. It served its purpose – cheap, pedestrian bauble that it was – and so it could stay. Now to find out how many of the dead man’s followers would as well. The younger princess escaping his trap was not a set-back, but an opportunity for correction so he could better train his dogs in their obedience.

“Someone tell me why, when confronted with this entirely foreseeable action, did we allow the prize to vanish before our very eyes? Why we did not pursue?” He queried, though none dared interrupt with an inane response, knowing that he and he alone held all their answers. “Because, my honorable knights, Our God, in His _omniscience,_ in His _omnipotence_, has decreed we are to claim _all_ of Hyrule. Not just the Sacred Relic. Not just the Bearer. Not just Hyrule Castle and the surrounding town. _All_. In time. As He wills.”

Pacing down the dozen steps of the so called Great Hall in the embassy, he triggered the laser pointer and used it to direct his minions’ attention to the map of Hyrule hung on the wall. It was nicely detailed, and had given him more than enough topographical information to direct and program his troops. The aetheric charting showed where best to deploy his sorcerers. The elemental balance provided a pattern for his summoning. All of it would be his, and then all of it would be _His_.

“These people. These provinces. These vassal states. The very Sanctity of this Holy Land will be ours by the dawn, and we shall welcome them! Yes. We shall welcome them all, once their impurities have been purged, as full citizens and full contributors to our great nation!” He proclaimed.

Those few soldiers that had been with him from the beginning, as well as his favored, acknowledged the inevitability of his proclamation as fact with a crisp, unified salute, and the new ones quickly followed suit, eager to join the fold. He smiled. They were his, down to the least and weakest, and would soon grow strong or be winnowed out with the rest of the flawed, weak, and undesirable. The streets would run as red as the moon before the work was finished, washed clean of that which befouled the hearts of these pathetic men.

“Accordingly, we shall extend this gracious invitation to our neighbors tonight. Tomorrow, we shall clear the field, and gather those that would oppose our divine purpose. In time, we shall prepare us a stadium where we may meet with our enemies face to face, and enjoy the sport of kings.” The groundwork had been laid, and as he spoke, agents of this inspired Divine Will were moving into place. Preparing. Waiting for the moment of sacrifice. Fulfilling their destiny.

It would not do for hot heads to act prematurely and spoil his otherwise flawless plans. Plans that had been decades in the making. Chaos caused mistakes. Haste made for waste. Control the way that the sheep ran in their panic, and it no longer was a stampede, but herding towards their rightful places. Most would stay where they were, stable and secure in the correct environment. Some would need to be relocated to better serve their purpose. Some would be culled by his well trained dogs, as he had directed.

Some would be devoured whole…and some he would deal with himself.

“Patience is paramount...” He cautioned. Slow, sure, measured steps were what brought success. A testing, an accounting, a winnowing, and a continuation towards the ultimate goal. Progress towards an inevitable domination brought about through nothing more than a hastening of natural processes, and a restoration of proper structure. That, and the overwhelming power to see it realized. “…as any good hunter knows. Together we have stalked our prey, flushed it from cover, and driven it run. All that is left is to release the hounds.”

As one, his higher ranking soldiers stood just that much taller with the mention of their mascot. The elite bore the crest of a boar, his personal heraldry, far more wild and vicious than any domesticated dog could ever be. Dogs needed a pack. Soldiers needed a command.

He was above such trivial weaknesses. His army was not.

“And while cornered animals have a certain vivacious spirit, they are woefully predictable. Such is exceedingly poor sport, as it were. But if one dangles the promise of escape before them, nipping at their heels to stoke their passions, then things become…interesting.” He smiled. “It is a delicate hunt, my loyal knights. This is a very _cautious_ stalking that I am asking you to perform, and one that I do not ask you to perform lightly. I am asking much, yes…yet I do ask.”

No reaction from his favored. Some startled looks from the loyalists, who knew that he did not _ask. _As their future king, he _commanded_. One of the lordlings new to the fold also seemed startled. The more useful one smirked.

That one would need to learn to control himself better if he hoped to be anything more than a financial and titular donation to the cause. His son’s _friend_ would learn, or he would die on the same blade as his sire. It was difficult to tell which outcome was more favorable, for he would enjoy either the surrender or the fight. He let his smile grow, and raised his hands outward, as though he were begging. As if he would beg.

“And so I put the question to you, my knights, my fellows, my huntsmen. How do we deal with these few deluded, ignorant fools bent on delaying our inevitable triumph?

Silence.

So they had learned.

“My Lord, I have a proposal.” Most of them. That it would be _this_ boy that spoke out of turn made him smile, the predictability nearly as amusing as his cartoon pig.

“You will be silent, pathetic scum, or do you wish to join your precious cohort in our glorious sacrifice?” Veran snarled, snide and mocking. So very lovely. “You forget yourself! It is only by the will of our most gracious Lord that you were you afforded a place among us, and that tenuous at best. We have no need of your foolish arrogance here.”

The brat in question had the audacity to growl, proving his flaw lay in his pride. Not that such a thing was at all surprising. The youth would have the chance to demonstrate whether or not he was deserving of such arrogance, he decided, or if the boy was simply born into the power he so casually assumed. Sitting back in his chair, staining the elegant handmade embroidery with blood, he waved off the interruption. Veran came to heel like the well-trained bitch she was.

“This whelp you so disparage yearns only to run with the best of my pack, and has brought much game to the table for the chance to join in the hunt. Can you say the same, shadow-walker? You know how quickly I grow bored. What new sport have you brought me, lately?” He asked, prodding at her pride with his words as precisely as he had cut with his scalpel.

His favorite gave up her challenge quickly, and looked away, the faint flush of shame touching her face. The bed games she provided him were challenging, yes, but hardly creative, and not nearly as valuable as the power she wielded as the Sage of Shadow. He had yet to crush her spirit entirely, though it was now warped beyond recovery. The twisting of her loyalties had been an entertaining game, and one well suited to his genius.

Alas, even the best of the rats was still vermin, including this one. She had the tenacity of a cockroach and the over-reaching web of the most prolific of spiders to play with. It made her worthy prey.

“The floor is yours, my Lord.” Glancing away from the chastised Sage, he nodded to the young upstart, allowing him to speak his mind. Time alone would tell if a son of his blood could prove useful, but for now, he would give the boy enough rope to hang himself with.

“Thank you, my Lord.” The fruit of his loins bowed, the fire in those eyes flaring to life. Whether it was madness, genius, fidelity, or zealous devotion didn’t matter. He knew he could use it all.

He just had to be patient. Keep the chattel demoralized and fighting amongst themselves. Divided, without leaders, they would fall in line. Without the protection of their Champions, their Heroes, their unity beneath Hylia’s line, they would welcome order. With his minions, he would instill a new order, a _proper _one. His dogs would sniff out the younger princess, and then he could kill them both. And then…_and then_, after, once the Relic was his, he could reshape the world to one that aligned with the unchanging purity of the One God’s initial vision for it, and rule until the end of time.

The moon would peak in a few hours, and with it, with the sacrifices he had prepared, Demise would descend to hold mortal form once more, and his own ascendancy as the priest-king of all the world would begin.

He just had to be patient for his carefully laid plans to come to fruition. Even without the youngest potential Relic bearer, for at this stage she mattered not at all. Those plans were inspired, flawless. They would not fail. They _could_ not. Hyrule would be _His_.

As the body-bags attested, even the mightiest had already fallen.


	2. Exordium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Link was sleeping while the world changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Link's POV picking up immediately after the last chapter of Of Cake and Calamity. 
> 
> TW: ...none, really, for this chapter. Don't worry, I'll make up for it later.

The cool air against my chest as Sheik pulls away and gets up wakes me in less than half a second, and I wait. Then wait some more. It’s still dark. There wasn’t any startling, or panting, or tears. No half strangled screaming, either. Three days was enough of that, then. It must be morning. I can drowse for a bit longer, and roll to breathe in his scent on the sheets and feel the remnants of his warmth on my skin. I shouldn’t fall back asleep, and listen to him moving around my rooms to fend off a return to dreaming.

He didn’t move enough to wake me even once, and slept the night through at my side. He ate a full meal at the table last night. It was nice…how I want his life to be. How I want to be. Content, I catch myself drifting towards sleep almost immediately. Blaming it on the lack of tension, I can’t stop the soft smile that works its way onto my face.

I know what was missing.

When I held him, kissed him, when we had sex. I know, now, what wasn’t there that I wanted from him. Why I wasn’t satisfied, even though I was satiated. Why I kept comparing him to Malon and Tetra, doing all three of them a disservice in the process. Why the easing of that crisp chord tying us together has dissipated into a pleasant harmonic whole.

He…played…with me. Yesterday, in the soup kitchen. You can’t play with someone you don’t trust. I’ve been playing with Tetra since before I can remember, and Malon since fifth grade. I trust both of them implicitly. I trust him, too…but now I know that he trusts me as well.

He _played_. Hesitantly, at times awkwardly, but still, it _was_ playing. He’s been so solemn, so sad – despite the sarcasm and robustly dark sense of humor – since we met, that I didn’t know he could…but he did. From the face Kahti pulled in the car, the sharp inhalation, I know that whatever else they are to each other, Kahti was right. They weren’t dating, weren’t lovers. From that one expression on his face, that quick gasp, I don’t think he’s ever heard Sheik sing, just to sing. Just because he can, because he’s happy.

Goddess, I thought my heart was going to stop, and then pound right out of my chest when I realized what was happening. What he was finally relaxing enough to let happen. Even Ashei’s torture disguised as agility training couldn’t get the sound of his quiet, gratified ease out of my head. Drawing a bath for him was the least I could do, and then letting him work through his issues with submission to go back to the teasing, playful, confident lover I’ve caught glimpses of…helped.

Then those bursts of sound and pleasure when I pulled his hair, the way he moaned, everything he’s been trying to tell me just clicked. That bit of pain isn’t _just_ pain for him, like scratching an itch isn’t just scratching for me. It brings a relief in its wake that’s nearly as intense and pleasurable as the initial pain is unpleasant, and that relief lingers long after the pain is gone. I listened to him, both the words he said and the ones that never made it past thought.

Then we made love.

Clutching my pillow to my chest, grinning like a fool in the darkness before dawn, I know what was missing. Trust, complete trust, and the beginnings of something that could become a deeper love if I take the time to nurture it and we let it grow. Now that it’s there, I’ll do everything I can to make sure it stays. I can hear him moving through the parlor for some reason, the soft pad of his stockinged feet a faint shuffling against the rug and huff on the hardwood as he moves. Loud in the silence. My alarm hasn’t gone off, and he hasn’t turned on the lights, so it must be earlier than I thought.

I’m more than willing to laze in bed and tease back towards dreams, another few minutes of sleep precious and wanted, if not needed…but something keeps me aware of his movements, not yet entirely awake. Yawning, my eyes water and my jaw cracks as the soft thump of his collapse echoes through the room. I have the blankets thrown back and am standing before I can process what exactly I heard.

“…fucking Calamity.” He moans, letting me slow my steps to something less likely to have me running into furniture now that I know he’s conscious. I still hurry, the horror in his voice churning my stomach, and I regret not dressing after cleaning us up last night as my shin meets what might be a full book bag. The sting makes me limp to the doorway and grab the frame for balance as it throbs. Then I’m glad to be holding on to something as my eyes adjust to the scene before me.

The ominous light from the opened window in the parlor lets me find his silhouette on the floor, kneeling and staring at the unnatural sky, hands clasped over his mouth and eyes shining in the dark. Outside, ashen motes of dancing light and darkest black blow in the wind as the sky pulses and smokes out small puffs of oily shade on a backdrop of a red the brightness of fresh blood. It bathes everything in eerie shifting whorls…and fades, as suddenly as it arose, the last wisps disappearing into a normal dawn.

Except the birds are silent. There’s no hum of electricity in the manor, no rush of water through the pipes, no natural melody of tree and grass and shrub. Nothing but Sheik’s sharp, panicked breathing and racing heart trying desperately to get mine to match his pace.

“What…what _was_ that?” I manage to rasp as he shakes hard enough to give me a small shock when I touch him from the static friction in his socks against the rug. That touch though, seems to take his paralysis and turn it into laughter that’s as much hysteria as shock.

“Fuck…fucking…ha…_Nayru’s bouncing blue tits_!” He pants, and that’s my cue to do more than stand here and stare. Not that there’s much light, this early in the day, but it’s enough that I can find the dark blur of the couch and make a decision.

He’s lighter than the antique wooden frame, and Ulli will kill me if I put ruts in the floor dragging furniture around. Picking him up is the hardest part, and thankfully he doesn’t fight being carried at all. Clings to me, in fact, as though I’m the only stable thing in the world. He’s cold to the touch, and still shaking as he swears. I don’t blame him for the last, since if my vocabulary was as graphic as his can be, I’d be swearing too. Not in the least because without power, there are no lights, and with no lights, I stub my toes on the couch, nearly dropping Sheik, then knock my knee on the table right at the nerve.

It smarts. I listen to his cursing for inspiration and, finding none appropriate, bite my lip instead, waiting for the throbbing to pass. Then I go and grab the blanket off of my bed, only tripping over something that’s probably my pants from yesterday and something else that’s a bit softer on the way in, and nothing at all on the way back out of the bedroom.

He’s still breathing in quick staccato beats, but has otherwise gone quiet by the time I get back and get him to put his feet up so I can wrap him in the blanket and wiggle underneath so his head is in my lap. I don’t have a brush, don’t want to risk the darkness to get to the washroom where I know there’s a towel or two and at least one pile of clothing to trip over to get one, and so I just card my fingers through his mostly loose hair.

Last night was the first time he’s taken it down for me, deliberately and without prompting. Today it’s a mess of snarls and knots, and by the time I’ve worked them out with my fingers the sun has risen, the birds are singing, the power is still out, and he’s fallen asleep. Exhausted from shock, and the terror that brought it on. My side of the Bond throbs with the remains, and I want nothing more than to return to the euphoria of last night.

The footsteps outside my door stop, and then three brisk knocks sound.

“Your Grace, are you awake?” Ulli calls, questioning.

“Come in.” I call back, and turn to look over the edge of the couch as she opens the door. Thank goodness it doesn’t have anything more complicated than a deadbolt that I never use. I don’t know if an electronic system would short out and seal us in, or if it would just let anyone through the moment the power went out. The purely mechanical deadbolt serves just as well, regardless of any electrical issues.

“The power’s out across the grid.” She tells me, which isn’t surprising. Korokshire is just a little too far from both Castletown and Perdubois to be locked into any of the city back-up systems.

“I’m sure they’ll have it up again soon.”

“Breakfast will be late, and not your usual fare.”

“Fruit and bread works. Maybe some of the milk if the generators for the refrigerators are down.” Between the generators and the solar panels, the refrigerators and Gillian’s cpap machine should last a week or more. We haven’t had to test it for more than a few days after a particularly bad season of storms, though.

“Yes, my Lord.” She murmurs, and disappears back into the hall. If she’s going to fetch breakfast I should put some clothing on. Sheik is sleeping deeply enough that I can replace my lap with one of the cushions without waking him, and the sun has risen enough that if I leave the curtains drawn and the bedroom door open, I don’t have to find my way by memory and feel. A small green light reminds me of my phone and slate, and I take both with me after pulling on enough clothing to cover the essentials.

There’s no service, no connection, and the screen remains blank and black and dead, so I leave them alone and wander back to get clothing and a brush for Sheik. As fetching as I find him in nothing but his hair and socks, it’s not something that I want to share with anyone. At least, not yet, and not without his express agreement. My second foray into the bedroom and closet shows me he’s already taken care of today’s outfits, though neither of them are right for a day spent at home or outside. They’re perfect for him to wear to go to Temple, or running around town, but no one is leaving while the power is out, especially if we don’t know the situation in Castletown itself.

Until I know what’s happening, I can’t do anything about it, so that means doing what I can, where I can, until then. I still don’t know what that hauntingly menacing sky was, or means…but I know Sheik does. I also know it terrifies him, but that’s not as useful as it could be. So much terrifies him that I should have a scale based on how badly something frightens him, not just if he’s scared or not. It’s not as though he doesn’t have reason, either. So many of the things he should be able to trust have failed him so many times that I’m stunned he still tries.

It’s just…I’m here, now. He can trust _me_. I won’t let anyone hurt him if I can help it, including myself.

Mindful of that, I take great care in waking him. The amount of attention I have focused on him lets me notice the small changes to his melody. The thrumming vibrations that are normally too subtle for me to be conscious of hum on the edge of my awareness, as if the strings of his magic are being plucked instead of bowed…though the gentle rise of a brief arpeggio as I stroke the back of his palm gives me echoes of both to puzzle over.

“Ngh.” The flinch marking his return to consciousness precedes the vibrant red of his irises by less than a second, and then I have more important things to worry about than a variation on a general theme. “Link?” He murmurs, his hand shifting to grasp and then squeezing my own.

“Yeah. You okay?” Anything strong enough to alter his tones is guaranteed to be powerful, but not necessarily painful, bad, or damaging. His luck is horrendous though, and I can’t know until he tells me if it was any of those things. Worse, if it still _is._

“I guess? I mean, all things considered I’m surprised to be alive and not sure if that’s a good thing, but I’ll deal?” He grumbles, rubbing his face as he sits up to lean against my shoulder and making me shift to support his sudden additional weight. He’s still too thin. That doesn’t mean the increase isn’t noticeable.

“Of course it’s good you’re alive.” I protest, and pull him closer, catching the faint strains of his melody again, like the lyrical drone of a viola over the rest of an orchestra. Ulli’s footsteps on the stairs reverberate, drowning it out once more, and giving me time to make sure his smooth skin is covered before she brings in something to eat.

It’s definitely not up to the standard I’m used to. It’s not _bad_, but not having my waffle leaves me feeling dissatisfied and out of sorts. No tea is worse, if only because of the lack of anything caffeinated and my brain telling me that caffeine is needed. Regardless, it is food, and I know that I shouldn’t complain just because it’s not the food I want.

“Power still out?” My Sheik asks, deliberately changing the subject. I let it slide, because I plan on proving to him that it’s a good thing he’s alive, not just telling him that it is. Upholding the fragile trust we _have_ developed. Strengthening it.

“Yes, and the gates are too heavy to move without assistance, so no travel today.” I tell him, sliding my arms underneath his back and legs to pick him up again and carry him to the table. Tetra says that actions speak louder than words, and from the weight of him in my arms, that’s certainly true.

“I can fucking walk, put me down!” He snarls at me, but the table isn’t that far and he isn’t that heavy. Isn’t actually struggling in my arms. He _is_ heavier than he was when I first met him, even if he’s no bigger. That means the weight he’s gained is all muscle, and that he needs to eat as much as I do.

“There we go. Eat.” If he can change the subject to avoid talking about something, so can I. “I’ve got plans for today, so you’ll need your energy.” If we can’t leave and take care of some of my errands in town, I can finally show him some of the Korokshire that I love, now that it’s blooming fresh and green and midterms aren’t for another week. A day isn’t nearly enough, but if that’s all I have, I’ll make the most of it.

“Oh really?” He drawls, and deliberately lets the blanket I wrapped him in slide from his shoulder to pool in his lap. His tattoos haven’t moved since last time, and I know now that they feel just as warm and smooth as the rest of his skin. Taste as subtly salty. The tossing of his hair over the same shoulder is just more of a tease. Taking my own chair, I reach for one of the cheese slices on a cracker as he picks a strawberry.

“I want to…show…you…” The red fruit, bright as his eyes and almost as large, caresses his lips before he closes them over the tip, sucking. Licking. Nibbling. Damn it. “…uh. Wanted to…I…”

“Mmm.” The throaty moan sends a bolt of pure lust right where it counts, but lacks the rich and profound resonance of the noises he was making last night when I pulled his hair. He’s trying to distract me again, but this time I don’t know what from.

“Stop that.” I sigh, and eat the cracker to keep from saying anything else. With a shrug, he actually eats the damn strawberry instead of playing with it, then takes one of the glasses of milk and another piece of fruit. There’s enough food that, despite being made of things that I would have snacked on as a child, we have a legitimate breakfast. My stomach being full puts more pressure on my bladder than normal, but nothing about this morning has been normal. I keep…hearing things beneath our conversation.

Things that make my bones ache and the hairs on the back of my neck rise.

I manage to actually fall over whatever hard thing I stumbled on in the dark earlier on the way to the washroom, and roll to keep from doing myself damage. Right into the wall, nearly two steps closer than I thought it was.

“Hylians.” Sheik mutters, but a tiny wisp of violet light blossoms in his palm, bright enough that I can see where I’m going. The reflection off the mirror and the shower doors brightens the bathroom enough that I can read the larger lettering on my toiletries, and don’t end up coating my toothbrush with acne treatment cream. That little bit of light moves just like the flecks of light and shadow did before dawn returned, reminding me of that disturbing vision.

I take the time to rinse and spit, though, before bringing it up.

“What…what was that? This morning?’ I ask, and he stills so completely that he stops breathing and his light goes out, leaving me in the dark. Perhaps if I’d somehow phrased it differently, his instinctual response wouldn’t have been to freeze. Perhaps not. I can wait. I…don’t mind waiting for him. As long as it’s not too long.

“Fucking shit and cherry swirl sundaes, drenched in whiskey and set on fire.” Sheik grouses. I’m just glad to hear him breathe. Gladder still, when the faint flicker of his eyes turns to that small spark of illumination in his hand, though his eyes still glow like a cat’s in the low light. “That, my dear Hero, was the destruction of the Champions’ Barrier and the Resurgence of the Calamity.”

“Seriously, what was it?” I snort, and rinse my toothbrush. Then pause as something Tetra told me, and Kahti told me, and the scary old lady at his Temple told me, and Impa told me comes to mind. He might have told me, too. “Wait, I thought you…you can’t lie.”

“You have a talent for stating the obvious.” Taking his toothbrush in hand, he tends to his own oral hygiene as I clutch the counter. Then sit down on the floor, my knees too unsteady to attempt anywhere else.

My first objection is that the Calamity is a _myth_. A story told by people to explain natural events before they had the understanding to know what _really_ was happening.

But I’ve read enough of the Hateno Codices to start to get the picture that they knew full well what was really happening, and know enough about mythology in general to understand that a story always has to have a basis in truth, and a framework of reality that both the storyteller and the intended audience share. Especially if that story is told by multiple peoples, over a large area of geography and a lengthy period of time.

Just because I don’t know something doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. Just because I don’t understand something doesn’t mean it doesn’t make sense. Different systems of measurement don’t mean inaccurate measurements. Different language doesn’t mean insensible mutterings. Just because I don’t have the same experiences as other people, doesn’t mean I shouldn’t believe them when they tell me about them.

Believe him.

Isn’t that why a Sheik was bonded to the Royal Family in the first place? Isn’t that their _primary_ purpose? The rest of it, the shielding, the sacrifice, the suffering…secondary.

The very first cycles of Hylian mythology begin with the Ascent. With Hylia, and Skyloft, and the Incarnation. The first cycles of Sheikan mythology begin with the Creation, then the Ascent. The Ancient Goddesses, the Pact, and the Guardianship. Two sides of the same story, as familiar to me as my mother’s voice reading me those very same tales. Even the Gorons’ mythological cycles reference the breaking of the world, the demons of the Fissure, and the Goddess’ peoples…the Cloud Breathers, and the Shadow Folk, the Branched Ones. The Little Brothers, the Wind Dancers, and the Children of the Great Water.

“I’m such an idiot.” How I could have missed something that, retrospectively, is so bloody obvious, I don’t know. The only explanation I have is that I wasn’t paying attention. It didn’t affect me, and so I ignored it.

“You can be, but why are you only admitting it now?” Sheik asks, mumbling through the foam of toothpaste before going back for his molars.

“Your humor still needs work.” I fuss, and he snorts, then chokes as the mint foam goes into his sinuses. He loses the blanket around his waist halfway through spitting and blowing his nose, the whuff of the fabric hitting the floor and the corner of it smacking my hand. I should…get up. Get us both dressed in something that can stand up to a little weather and a lot of outside.

Find out what’s making that apprehensive dissonance, and make it stop.

Unless it really is the Calamity Returned. Every myth says that only the Hero with the Blade of Evil’s Bane can fight _that_ ancient evil. Only the Line of Hylia, with the power of the Ancient Goddesses, can Seal the Darkness. The Line of Hylia…damn it all, I need to call Tetra. But none of the phones work. Even the landlines are down, no tone emerging at all when I pick up the handset by the elevator.

“Link!” Sheik barks, chasing after me still dressed in nothing more than socks, blanket, tattoos, and hair, as I return the handset to the receiver. “What is it? What do you need?”

“Tetra. I need to get ahold of Tetra.” If this really is the Calamity, she’s going to be target number three. Hilda will be number two. The Queen number one. One and two have protocols, but…

“Fucking…” He growls, then stops and inhales sharply as he thinks of something that he declines to share. “…can you keep…oh, Din dammit! I’ll be right back.” Instead of heading to my room or his, he takes the stairs down two at a time and scampers deeper into the Manor. I can hear him running, but cannot follow with any speed at all. The hallways are pitch black to me, getting darker than that the further from the windows they go. The only room with any sort of natural lighting that deep in the building…technically buildings…is the Chapel.

At least I know where he’s headed.

Despite having lived in Korokshire all my life, I have to find my way around slowly and carefully. How many stairs are there? Was it three doors, or four? A hallway, or a sitting room? Furniture and decorations find me regularly, and eventually I just open every door I can to let _some _sunlight in and resign myself to bruised shins. It’s the weekend, so if the outage extends to Castletown, we might not be tended to until tomorrow, possibly even Moonsday. The manor isn’t a priority…the hospitals are.

We’ll need heat, and light. Candles, lanterns, torches, even glowshrooms. Dangerous to have inside, but some sort of light is necessary. Not a lot. Definitely not the amount coming from the Chapel doors, spilling down the hall and letting me move with confidence once more. Sheik isn’t the only one to have thought of the skylight as a source of light that doesn’t rely on electricity. I can hear a lively discussion taking place, and wonder who else has managed to make it to the heart of the manor through darkened hallways and shaded corridors until I realize that I can’t understand a word of what’s being said.

“_Ya, eri.’_ An unfamiliar voice says clearly.

_"Ahni Kaya?” _I recognize this voice, and know that there’s no way Impa could be here. She must have some other means of speaking with him. Something I don’t know about. A radio, perhaps, or…something.

Something that I need.

_"Ya, ridorana?”_ Sheik answers hesitantly.

_"Duar domine isa _trenyeh_ ylia.” _Impa insists on something.

_“Ya, ridorana. Min svaevar.” _He vows as I reach the door, and find him utterly alone. Holding an offering bowl in both hands, filled with water, the rim of cheap quartz crystals acting as a kind of grid to host what looks like a ball of mist, suspended in the air above and swirling ever so gently.

“Here he comes for a little _trenyeh_ right now.” That voice is Purah’s. “_Kattur, Kaya. Mokhat duar domine. _Let us see._”_ The cackle spreads to more voices that I don’t recognize as well as the ones I do, and his hands tighten around the rim of the bowl, making the porcelain creak.

“Perverts.” He snarls, turning his head to look at me, eyes shimmering. “Claree is dead, as are Jerrin and Kenai. Prince Ravio is suspected dead. Princess Hilda captured by unknowns. Princess Tetra has been evacuated and is with Tye and Regan, but they can’t risk the contact right now. Rendezvous is scheduled in ten hours, so you should be able to talk to her then.” As he speaks – his tone flat and quiet for all his enunciation is crisp – the light from the bowl dims and the mist dissipates along with the voices.

I have to assume that Jerrin and Kenai are…were…Hilda’s and Ravio’s Sheiks…and am vaguely ashamed that I don’t know for sure.

“You mustn’t tell _anyone_, Link. Not _anyone, _about this. Lives depend on your silence.” He asserts, and if it weren’t such a deadly serious situation – nearly unbelievable – I’d be thrilled that he’s got the confidence to do so. But Tetra’s life is one of the ones that hangs in the balance, and to protect that I’ll take all the help I can get.

“I understand.” I nod, and since I can still see well enough to move without trepidation, step closer to both him and the bowl. There’s something in it aside from water, something that whispers and moans, amplified both by the water and the basin, hovering just on my absolute threshold of sound.

“Seriously, not a single soul. The Gossip Stones are anathema, if the Witchfinders learn there are still practitioners using them we…I…it wouldn’t end well.” He presses, unyielding, eyes alight with lingering aetheric residue.

“Okay. I won’t. I promise.” It’s a simple thing to assure him of, and given that I don’t actually know anything about them aside from their name, a relatively easy promise to keep. Since I’m so good at not paying attention to important things, I don’t notice him lift a small grey bead from the water and slide it back onto the cord he has wrapped around his wrist. The one normally bound up with his hair.

Even if I had, I would never say anything about it, and forget about it as soon as it is done.

“Thank you.” His relief is palpable, tension leaving his thin frame with a huff.

“Tetra is safe, though?” I have to ask, needing the reassurance myself. He’s never lied to me before, and has no reason to now, no matter how he got his information.

“As safe as she can be, considering. Safer than the rest of her family, certainly. As long as Princess Hilda lives, then Princess Tetra isn’t as tempting a target. Mezza’s still breathing, and as long as she is, we’ll have eyes inside. She says the Relic is…settling.”

“Wait. Wait, wait, wait.” Princess Hilda is supposed to inherit the Throne when the King and Queen abdicate. “What about their Majesties?”

“Jerrin is _dead_, Link. Kenai as well. Sheem witnessed it, and is still alive, which means Prince Ravio is still alive. Fled, missing, but alive.” The words seem to take the last of Sheik’s energy, and he sits down on the floor where he is suddenly and quickly enough that I’m not certain he meant to. “Princess Tetra would have seen it too.” He whispers.

“Saw what?”

“The first regicide attempt. Sheem followed the Prince, and Tye grabbed Princess Tetra, but there’s no reason to assume that the attempts stopped at one. If Princess Hilda has the Triforce, then the King and Queen are dead. Executed. At…at least it was quick.” He shudders. “The Calamity is upon us.”

He had a really good idea, sitting down on the cold marble floor. I’m not the expert he is in swearing, but it seems like a good idea to at least try. Once I start, I understand why he does it. It helps get the emotions out without resorting to violence or tears. Clears the head.

He’s staring at me when I finish, eyes open wide and mouth open wider. I take another breath to steady myself, and try to smile. That doesn’t work, barely twitches my lip, but I tried. There just isn’t that much to smile about at the moment, with more issues that need addressing than plans of action regarding them. First things first, I need to find Tetra.

What…what would she do, if our situations were reversed? We’ve always been able to talk it out, and now – obviously – we can’t. She’s…unavailable. Momentarily unavailable. I have to believe that. Sheik is here, though, and for all his contradictions, all his quiet inhibitions, and all his brash swearing, he’s smart, and capable, and here. And I need that. I need him.

“So. We know what the problem is, and have a good idea of the scope, if not the exact specifics. That’s something.” I reason. “If we _know_ that much, we can start finding _solutions_ for that much. The rest can wait.” I say out loud, confident and calm, just like my first love would. Hearing it helps make this entire surreal morning seem _legitimately_ real. My manufactured confidence seems to work as intended.

Sheik closes his mouth. Bites his lip. Winces. Looks me in the eye, and nods. Just like that – in a forgotten Chapel in the middle of my unremarkable home – the next adventure in my life begins. I can only hope that I can meet all the challenges it will bring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Link, bb...you have no idea.
> 
> ....muahahahahaha.


	3. De-liberations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes a choice is predicated by a lifetime. Sheik's not too fond of what the future holds, but knows where he wants to be when it hits...and hits hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: mild racism, suggested violence, referenced past severe violence, mild homophobia, the bodily functions of babies   
Warnings: Uh...this AU's particular version of Sheik being himself. Adult themes. Swearing. Reader discretion is advised.

_“Fragments of the Twilight shattered/Sacred oaths forsworn/Taking all the Hero strives for/Evil is reborn”_

How the _fuck _the obscure, eight hundred year old poetry that tumbles from Shad’s mouth is supposed help anything is so far beyond me it might as well be on the far side of Jupiter’s sixty-seventh moon…but it does, and doesn’t that just fucking sting. Like vinegar in a paper cut, it’s an insult added to injury, and takes all of my will power not to storm off and let these pig-ignorant Hylians deal with their own shit pile. And fail. And die. Because they’re as innocent as they are ignorant, even if they _are _as annoying as homework on a holiday.

But it’s working, sparking the terror of understanding exactly how _entirely_ fucked we all are right now in each and every one of their eyes. It’ll take a while for them to get beyond that unreasoning panic. Nayru knows the only reason I’ve been able to do so is thirteen years of practice, and a good six hour head start. Who knew coping with over a decade of anxiety attacks could be good for something? Saints and Sages though, the experience still isn’t worth a bent pin in getting _them_ calmed down enough to think. To plan. Adapt.

Shad’s done well, better than I thought he would when Link suggested talking to him. For an un-blooded scholar, he’s done _remarkably_ well. Ms. Risoka’s a class above him, and met us at the door with weaponry and light armor suited to each of us, clad in her own. With a few notable exceptions, almost all of the full-time staff of Korokshire Manor has been exceptional in their response to the actualized threat of the Resurgence.

…now that it’s a well-dressed, well-spoken Human scholar telling them instead of their Hylian Lord’s nervous spook catamite babbling an unintelligible string of words in two languages interspersed with enough swearing to count as a third, at least. While I appreciate not having to speak in front of a large group of people – and Shad is doing a good job – a lifetime of habit isn’t going to change overnight. Even if the world we all have to live in has changed overnight. Vigilance can’t just be assumed, put on like a t-shirt and worn well.

No. Habit, and practice are needed. They’ll learn. Hopefully quickly enough. Then - maybe - I’ll be not only capable of speaking before them, but be considered acceptable to listen to. Their precious Lord Spoon has begun to manage that. After his impressive litany this morning, I know that he has been at least _partially_ paying attention to what I tell him, and assumed that they would offer me that same courtesy.

Stupid, Kaya. You should just go back to Lurelin. They’re obviously missing their idiot.

“So the power won’t be coming back on?” One of the maids asks, either the first to recover or the last to understand. She’s not Ulli – and I’m feeling charitable – so we’ll go with first to recover.

“We don’t know. It’s possible, but better to assume that it won’t. That way we’ll be prepared no matter what.” Link answers her, reasonably. If it does, well, all good. If not, Korokshire will have to function anyway. It’s not like electricity was a thing a hundred years ago, let alone four hundred. We have no records on how the Calamity affects it. The records we do have remind me that I’ve got a job to do, and it isn’t to sit here and seethe at subconscious prejudices.

I promised. Farore bless, but I promised.

“If we’ve no sign of crews or communication by tonight, I plan to take a small, well provisioned, and willing group overland with me to Castletown.” He continues, and is met with some protests. “Telma has been running Korokshire since before I could toddle. She can keep running it. Gillian knows more about cooking than anyone else I’ve met, and we have the root cellars and pantry. Not to mention everyone here knows a chokecherry from a nightshade berry, and it is spring. No, no, I am not. Ashei can beat me five times out of six. She’s staying. Anton too. Yes, Linda, thank you. That would help a lot. I don’t know. Telma says there are a bunch of lanterns she found while cleaning the Chapel. Yes, both kinds, but we don’t have any lantern oil, so be careful.”

Each question they have for him he meets with either an answer or a resource in the form of a staff member that has either an answer or a temporary solution. The mutterings from my Gossip Stone continue unabated, leaving my eyes watering and fingers itching, but I can’t leave his side and I can’t expose my people so blatantly. Kahti knows something is happening, I can see it in the way he stares at me and ignores the Hero. I’d tell him to just take care of it himself, but he hates bleeding and the Stones need that connection to function properly. Full sunlight for power, blood to bind-in, the ability to focus, and a damn certain sense of self to keep from being lost in the babble.

Thank Dah Hesho – Sheik of King Daphnes Nohansen Hyrule – for helping him figure out a way to reduce them to a bead the size of a thumbnail instead of the great hulking masses of stone, bone, and spellwork that they used to be. If nothing else, it minimized the amount of blood that needs to be spilled to bind them. A little poke of the finger, a drop, no more…and probably the only time in my life that I’ll openly admit to preferring a tiny prick.

Not that anyone of the Conclave in conference this morning doubts my inclinations, thanks to _bedstemor _Purah’s lascivious tongue. Our Duty is to the Line. It shouldn’t matter to anyone but myself and my partner who I share a bed with. It shouldn’t, and it doesn’t. Not to my ability or devotion. I have made no promises lasting past the heat of the moment, with none of my temporary partners ever spending the night. I’ve…lingered…a few times. Stayed until dawn with friends with benefits a few more. Done the walk of shame a few more times than that. But it doesn’t matter to anyone important. It doesn’t.

I don’t remember my parents. Don’t know if I have a family. Eran is _dead_. Grand Master Impa doesn’t care who I align my thighs with, and Princess Tetra all but threw me at her intended once she knew he was interested. Lady Malon is a voyeur of the highest order. Link himself certainly hasn’t objected. They’re the only ones that truly matter. Out of the dozens present in the Conclave, having only one person who isn’t repulsed by an integral part of who I am, though…

It’s impossible to avoid shame when surrounded by the scorn from the very people who conventional wisdom says should be giving solace. It shouldn’t matter. I don’t know most of them. Of those I do, Purah is fucking insane. Danpe passively hates everyone. Hawa actively hates everyone. Hana’s got her own problems to worry about. Kafei is distractible and otherwise invested. Hanju is so kind that she can’t understand. Chiya’s too young, and innocent enough that I want to keep her that way for as long as it’s safe to do so.

Grant’s fucking dead.

Hina might be empathetic – having been disowned by her family over some weird itching problem – but she’s older than I am, and essentially a stranger. Kahti understands me in a way that Link never will…but needs so much time and concentration that joining in the Gossip is practically beyond his ability. Especially at the Conclave level, with as many people linking in as possible. Too little magic, and too little blood. Hesitancy makes any aetheric manipulation harder. He’d need to overload himself to manage.

Then the Witchfinders would detect it and have him locked up faster than he could say hello.

My musing despair is broken by something small and damp locking around my shin, and I tear my unfocussed gaze from Link’s strong back to find Malo attempting to use my leg wrappings to climb me like a tree. Pleased at gaining my regard, he squeals and flails in the universal toddler language for “pick me up”. To avoid having him grasp one of the dagger hilts on the side of my thighs, I do, and carefully arrange him so he can, at best, only tug at my bound hair and pocket flaps. The snaps are too new, too strong, for uncoordinated baby fingers to manage.

Thank Din. The last thing he needs to play with is anything explosive or poisonous, or both. Like the Deku nuts on the right side, at my hip, or the explosive tags on the left. Squirmy pisser. Wait. That’s not an upset face, but it is a definite look of concentration and effort. Red. Grunty.

Shit. Literally.

“Bwah!” He laughs as he finishes his work, and tilts towards my face to catch a double handful of my hair in tiny fists. A certain distinct aroma wafts as I march him towards the ones tending the nursery for a change of nappies. I don’t mind holding, soothing, or otherwise tending to other people’s spawn, but I draw the line at sweeping mud valley. The only ass I clean out is my own, for fuck’s sake.

Returning to Link’s side, my master smiles fondly at me mid-conversation. I observe, still unused to any Lord – any Hylian really – doing more than dictate and expecting instant obedience. When Malo returns I scoop the smallest of my _domine_’s people up before he can bite, give him something safe _to _bite, and hold him through the rest of the meeting.

By the time the planning has gotten past minutia and the protests are entirely gone, my hair wrapping is soggy, and will need to be re-plaited. Doing so will take me mere moments. I’ve suffered no damage and neither has the youngest of Link’s household, and this casual debriefing hasn’t been interrupted by a fussing child. As far as successes go, it’s worth a little gnawed fabric to keep the wriggling poop-factory busy.

“Any further questions?” Link asks again, having successfully foisted the second last onto Kamo and the last onto the siblings living in the renovated Carriage House.

“If we’ve questions while you’re gone?” Malo’s mother asks, hands full of bags of dried mushrooms which tell me why she isn’t looking after her get. Not that he’s a difficult child to manage, but my arms are getting tired.

“I’ll open the main library, just be careful with the lanterns. In fact, I’d prefer if no fire was kept in there at all. Daylight should be enough for most things, and the glow-shrooms or lumistone at dusk and dawn.” He frowns. “Some of those books are from the Twilight Era. I’d like them safeguarded as much as possible.”

“I’ll manage the library.” Shad offers. “I can do that and study pretty easily. It’s not all that different from what I do on Campus anyway.”

“Thanks, Shad.” Link smiles at him, too, but differently. I can’t pinpoint the reason why – the tones are too fleeting and the intensity too mild – but it’s a subtly different gradient from the one he gave me only moments ago. “Anything else?” He waits for a good long while for anyone else to speak up before dismissing the staff to see to their duties, and then waits another ten minutes for those who might not be comfortable speaking in front of others to approach.

No one comes, for any reason, including to take the increasingly lumpish toddler from my shoulder. Holding him is like holding a lukewarm bag three-quarters full of pea-soup, with more mess involved should I spill. I’d rather not have to explain to his mother why I spattered her offspring on the hardwood, and have to keep adjusting my grip on him as he moves. Still, I can’t say I mind. He’s soft and warm and won’t have to shit again for at least another ten minutes. It’s only when Link clears his throat that I realize I’ve been gently humming and rocking the boy, and he’s most assuredly calm. Not asleep, but drowsing in content.

“I’d never thought I’d envy a baby.” He grins. “Will you sing me to sleep, tonight?” The question is asked in soft-rose innocence, no overtones of crimson lust or umber anger present, but it makes me flush anyway. Losing control of my face yet again. Din damn it, I shouldn’t let him get to me like this. He’s got Princess Tetra for that kind of crap, I’m just a convenient bed-warmer while they’re apart.

Which will be for a long, long time, now. If Princess…er, Queen Hilda reseals the Calamity today, it’s still four or five days to walk to Castletown, and another eight to ten hours to walk through it. At my pace. I’m not sure if Link can keep that kind of time. He’s fit, yes. Rather spectacularly so. Definitely an absolute unit. Mm. I doubt he’s had to walk all day for days on end as his sole means of transport, though.

I haven’t had to walk all day with camping supplies either, but at least I know how tiring the walking part alone can be. The weight will slow me down, but is entirely necessary. Shelter, food, emergency medicines. Water is taken care of with our Silver Scales, but everything else we’ll have to bring with us.

And of fucking course Farore’s Chosen would just happen to conveniently be well familiar and supplied with all the things rough camping requires. Korokshire; part swamp, part forest, all fucking wild and untamed wilderness aside from the manor house and storage silos, is just peachy-fucking-keen to have tempered the future bearer of the Goddesses’ Blade to a level of woodsmanship rarely seen in this day and age in anyone aside from wildlife conservationists and the very same bat-fuck crazy fuckers that actually wanted the fucking Calamity to fucking return.

Fuck.

“Kaya? You in there?” Link asks, snapping his fingers to get my attention.

Double fuck.

“Yeah. Uh. Yeah, just…mildly terrified. Sorry.” I apologize, and shake my head to help regain enough focus to function. My _domine_ is frowning when I do, as unhappy and guilty as an honest priest preaching about greed in a mega-Church.

“You know you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, right?” He asks me, reaching out to hold my arms in his hands. They don’t reach all the way around, but it’s close enough. I can see that my size bothers him in how he measures that standard. It’s not his fault, but he takes his responsibilities towards those who serve him to ridiculous lengths.

“…huh? The fuck are you talking about?” It’s probably entirely my fault if Malo’s first word is regrettable. Mostly, at least. His proper caretaker should have retrieved him immediately after the meeting instead of continually exposing him to my unsavory vocabulary.

“You don’t have to sing for me if you don’t want to. You don’t need to sleep with me either, not in the same bed or in the same room, even. I just like having you there, and it’d be nice if you came with me to Castletown, but you don’t have to. I’ll manage. Maybe take Mils and Mila.” He mumbles, his hands rubbing at my arms as he uses his big boy words and inside voice to prove I’m not the dumbest shithead in the room.

“Link, shut it.” I sigh, juggling the alert but not alarmed baby in my arms to the side so I can lean in and give my dear Lord douche-whistle a quick peck on the lips. They fall open in shock, but he goes quiet – which was kind of the point – so I’ll take it. “Of course I’m going with you. You’re useless as a mage, can’t communicate with anyone alone, and my Bonded. I’m your Thrice dammed Sheik, and that means I belong at your side. No matter what, you spectacularly thick spoon. I’m going with you.”

“But you don’t need to.” He insists. “You’d be more comfortable here.”

“Yes.” I agree. “I would, but if you’re going to play Hero, you need all the help you can get. I’d rather endure a little discomfort and have the Calamity sealed once more than sit around with all the backbone of malformed profiterole and worry. At least if I go with you, I’ll know what exactly I should freak out about instead of just letting my imagination run wild.” I tell him, and he stares at me for a moment longer before crushing me in his arms and making Malo squeak and babble.

“I’m no Hero.” He murmurs into my hair, squeezing tighter. “But thank you.”

“You’re squishing me.” I complain, and am kissed for my troubles in a way that leaves me breathless and him panting and Malo squirming for space.

“Ba! Baba ah! Aaaah!” The angry grumbles of a disturbed toddler make him laugh and take the boy from me.

“Sorry, buddy. Didn’t mean to mush you.” He apologizes, swinging the child up and around in a tightly controlled spin. “Want to go to Salvatore? I bet you do! Yes, you do! Let’s go visit Salvatore!” He coos. “We’ll get you with the rest of the kiddies, because Sheik and I have adult things to do.”

“Link!” I protest. Not that he wants to fuck – that’s not my place to refuse, and I could use the distraction right now – but that he’s telling anyone who cares to listen that he does. Bad enough that the entire Conclave knows thanks to _bedstemor_ Purah, but I’d have preferred that his entire staff only heavily suspected he likes to play hide-the-sausage in his Sheik.

“We’ve got to meet Telma in stores, check all our equipment, plan our route, establish duties, pack supplies, and be available in case anyone thinks of anything else for either of us to attend to before we leave.” His eyebrows rise, and if it weren’t for the playful bounce in his steps and glint in his eye, I would think him pure as the driven snow. I’m his Sheik, though. I don’t miss any of it.

Not. One. Fucking. Bit.

It means I’ve got a tenacious semi as we unfurl and set up small tent after small tent in the yard, Link checking for missing and damaged parts while I get practice both in setting up and taking down the two and a quarter kilogram structures. There’s barely room for two sleeping bags side by side and backpack each at the head, but the next size available is meant for eight and _will _be too much for me to be able to carry anything else, and I can’t manage my fair share if Link is the one to carry the tent. I can’t even stand steady under the weight, and it’s purely physical.

Our supplies par down further as a result, and I hate being right. I know exactly what I need to be worrying about. It’d annoy me more if it didn’t work, but half of the things I worry about never happen, so I’ll fret in order to forgo the actual experience. By the time we leave the two packs by the western door, I’ve resigned myself to feeling absolutely filthy for the foreseeable future, and only mostly grimy for the rest. At least I’ve got around a decade of practice with handling the crushing sensation of complete insufficiency.

I still can’t bring myself to cut my hair, with all that it means to me. Personally and traditionally. I _know_ I’m a little too proud of it, a little too attached to how thick and full and strong it is. It’s my safety blanket – one that can’t be taken from me easily – and I can’t give it up.

The way I wear it connects me to a people, despite not knowing a family. The wrappings were originally just to keep it clean, long before we learned to spell-weave fabrics, longer still before we were allowed anything like a knife for any reason. The farming implements of the Twilight Era only made half-decent weapons, and a knife was far too close to a dagger for any Hylian to permit us to hold.

If they had, we may never have developed the fusing of magic and technology that brought about the Calamity in the first place. Not that it stopped the Yiga from mastering the scythe, either.

Now I have eight daggers, two on each thigh, one at each ankle, one against either forearm, a spear, a spare quiver for Link, and enough rope to hang myself in addition to the cording for the tent spikes. Four cantrips are all I can manage to hold ready, but I’ve got a dozen Deku nuts, twenty spell-scrolls of contained Fire in case the flint and striker don’t catch, all of my beads to draw upon for strength, and the coil of Tears from the Sacred Realm wrapped around my wrist opposite my Silver Scale. I haven’t the first idea what the Tears could be used for, but I’m also not leaving something so Sacred and Blessed behind when the weight is unnoticeable.

While Link heads off to check on Miss Risoka and Telma’s schedules and plans during his absence, I frantically review my chapter on Hylian anatomy and practice what few restorative castings I’m even moderately confident in. They produce way too much heat and light, by-products of inefficiencies I don’t know how to correct, but it’s getting too dark for Shad to find anything in the library, and I wouldn’t know where to look. I _hate_ feeling this useless, being a burden, and the more I think about our upcoming journey the more I recognize that that’s what I’ll be.

At least at the beginning. Nayru, _please_. Let me learn everything I need to help the Hero on his quest. Some Divine Inspiration would be appreciated right about now.

Of course, that’s not the way the Goddesses or prayer works, and I know it. I haven’t done everything possible myself, with the resources available to me. The Three do not meddle in the affairs of mortals, and it takes some seriously messed up shit for Hylia to intervene. Majora is more capricious, while the Goddess of the Sand does not bestir Herself for those not of Her lands. The Fierce Deity is as much a curse as a blessing, and the Saints and Sages are as mortal and fallible as the rest of us, if stronger and more focused than average…but it never hurts to ask. At least, not badly. Not beyond being entirely ignored, which, as a spook, is still better than what I get from a solid portion of the general population just for existing in a public space.

It’s not like I’m not familiar with the brutal lash of word, deed, opinion, and fist, though I’ve mostly blocked out what an actual lash feels like. Instead of dwelling, I study in the clerestory windows of the Great Hall until supper is served and books need to be put away in order for plates to take their place.

There’s a lot of meat, and a lot of milk. All highly perishable, and all slightly flavored by the smoke of coal and wood. They must be cooking over an open flame. The soup could only be done in a kettle of significant size for the quantity present. There is no bread, no rice, no starchy roots, and only a few crackers for carbohydrates. It’s…odd, for a group used to physical activity _not_ to have something to maintain energy for long periods of time, but it’s still tasty. I’m sure the cook will figure something out soon, as the amount of physical labor done for survival will rise as surely as the sun.

The whispers grow louder throughout the meal, loud enough that my master _has_ to be able to hear them, and with his permission I leave the table long before most are finished their meals to return to the Chapel. The scrying bowl is where I left it, and it takes but a moment to detach the small stone from the cord around my head. The daggers Miss Risoka provided are all as wickedly sharp as my tongue, and it barely takes any pressure to draw blood enough to coat the Rune on the bead, activating it. We’ve a few hours left before sunset, but the light is not strong and so the mists form only vague shapes rather than crisp images of those I am speaking with.

The Conclave assembles quickly. Generations of persecution for this very act have made us both quick and circumspect when using it. I am not the first to link in to the Gossip, nor am I the last, and tender my greetings quickly and as unobtrusively as I can. My _domine_ joins me moments later, his hands on my shoulders lending me unintended strength. The images stabilize, but do not clear, and I cannot spare the focus to translate for him. We wait as one with baited breath for any sign of life.

“_Winyefarse, Ridorana, sheikaren, konklavar.” _Tye greets. _“Princess Tetra ylia.”_ From the shouts of joy that follow the news, I don’t need to translate that, anyway. Link’s strong fingers tighten on my shoulder as he gasps, and just as Kahti ignored my tears on his shoulder two weeks ago I ignore the hot droplets on mine, now. It’s only fair. As he loses his focus in relief, the image wavers and the volume dips, and I renew my contribution to the meeting of minds in response. He needs to hear this – even if he can’t understand it – as much as I do.

Yes, Princess Tetra lives, but she is not by any means well. Tye’s arm has been splinted with a stick and the hem of her shirt and should heal at least mostly straight. They _must_ keep fleeing and hiding if they are to survive. With Remnants, Corruptions, and panic in the streets, there are few places for them to turn that our unknown enemies would not check. Her entourage is out of the question, for _if_ they live, they are surely being watched. All of their regular haunts, familiar places, and known contacts _must _be abandoned. If she is to remain both free and alive, they must hide, and hide so thoroughly all hope of her being both free and alive seems ludicrous.

“Truthspeaker…” The Shadow Sage speaks for the first time, though her presence has been laced through the lattices of the Stones from the first. “…have you thoughts?”

It is my turn to falter in maintaining the connection, increasing Link’s tension as I stammer an apology to him and a reply to her.

“I, _Winyefarse_?” Why she would call on me, of all those present and able, baffles me. I’m nowhere near Castletown or the Princess. Tye would be the more logical choice, he’s less likely to fold like a lawn chair at the first sign of conflict and right fucking next to her.

“Yes, you. _Ridorana_ Impa has kept me appraised of your history, and of this fool attempt at melding Nayru’s Love and Daruk’s Protection. It lacks refinement.” She snaps, clearly referring both to my protective conglomeration and my past. The rebuke stings.

“Apologies, _Winyefarse_.” Thank Farore Link doesn’t understand more than one word in ten. He’s a quick study, and Veran is correct. I am...inappropriate. Insufficient in so many ways. Worth less than a pint of sun-warmed piss on a hot summer day. I should have been working on the spell I started consistently, not haphazardly. I should have been trying harder to be a better Sheik and dropped out of my classes the moment Link changed the course of my future instead of trying to do both.

Multi-tasking never turns out the best product in a given time frame. I’m his Sheik, not another faceless student at the uni. I haven’t done as great a job at either as I could have if I’d stuck to one or the other. It just took the fucking Calamity to make me realize how _badly_ I’ve been failing. At everything.

We are our deeds, after all. I have spent my life running away from responsibilities unasked for, duties unfulfilled, and communities that neither want nor welcome me. I didn’t even have the decency to die with Eran, and save them the trouble my continued existence precipitates.

“I don’t want your apologies, Truthspeaker.” She scorns the very idea. “_Do better_.”

What choice is there but to obey?

“Yes, _Winyefarse_.” I choke, accepting the task without knowing how. My brains must be half sandbag, soaking wet and heavy and unable to be moved.

“Now, given your dubious company with the poor and forgotten of Castletown’s dark corners, where may the Hope of Light find succor and remain in shade?” Impa, _Impa_, honor and dignity of our people, asks. She _knows_ how great my trespasses are to the sanctity of the office of the Sheik, yet appears not to hold me accountable for doing what was needful to survive. Of knowing, intimately, the very people and places they now desperately need to find.

Perhaps I am suited to aiding Princess Tetra, after all.

“There is a small soup kitchen, deep within Ikana, called the Seventh Heroine. It’s next to a Church on the corner of…” I begin. It’s as good a place as any to start, and Muava is trustworthy. She guards the forgotten ones. As I dredge my memories for sanctuaries that will not turn any aside – no matter what their rank or race – I can feel the others dropping from the Conclave until it is simply Impa, Veran, Tye, someone I can’t picture as they too fade out of the weaving, and myself. Even Link has abandoned me to my task, long after Kahti stopped translating my words for him. “…if not there, then the squatters on 7B East Avenue at least won’t tattle. Not to any one, for any reason. If you find yourself among them, well, the worst has already happened to you. No one there will cause further harm, though they won’t help, either.” I finish, cotton-mouthed and quaking under Veran’s glaring neon contempt.

Not for my knowledge or ability, no. That she needs, and resents that she needs. No, her derision stems from my language, my manner, my predilections, and my interference with my master’s life. A Sheik is supposed to make life easier, and my dependence on his charity and rapid installment under him without her express permission is what chafes her at the bit. That has been made perfectly clear. I am to stop it immediately.

“Thank you, Truthspeaker.” Tye’s intense tangerine whorls of need, shot through with sour yellow slivers of fear and moss green stains of dull pain, falls away as he finally lets go of the Gossip. He’s changed from the boy I once shared bed space with, no less kind, but tempered heavily with expedience and bitter boundaries not of his making. Of course, I’ve changed too. We both know what it is to live with the consequences of other people’s decisions. It’s been over a decade, after all. We no longer know each other, for all we must rely on the other.

Impa knows me better, having guided me twice through the Trials herself. She’s in as much danger as Princess Tetra is, simply through association with the Monarchy and her position as Grand Master. She follows quickly, leaving me with the current Sage of Shadows, Veran Pansori, who invokes the Fierce Deity by name and turns her ire to a burning score across my tongue before I can safely withdraw.

“Once do I bind you, no words come unasked. Twice do I bind you, your temptation masked. Thrice do I bind you, to service complete. In silence beholden, until next we meet.” The curse etches itself into my core and slams me from the Gossip Stone’s influence back to the harsh edges of a shattered offering bowl, a setting sun, and blood tinged water seeping into my clothing. The shards of ceramic are as large and sharp as her temper, so I handle them as carefully as I should have watched myself to avoid further cutting.

“I want to come with you.” Kahti says, kneeling next to me with a dust pan and bucket. “There is nothing for me here, with both you and Lord Korokshire gone.”

But you’ll be safe. I want to tell him. Open my mouth to do so. Find that I can’t. Inhale fabric wrapped firmly around my face and head. He stares at me as I tug on the clothing, taking up a corner of the _hudtar_ once I stop flailing to pant, showing me the glistening seal of the Sage.

“You are under a geas of the Relentless One, Kaya. Fulfill it. Can you speak?”

“Only to answer direct questions.” I hear myself say. The other words stick in my throat. Kahti snorts, chuckles, then laughs for an insultingly long time. I search for and find my Gossip Stone, rethread it, tie the end, and leave him to his amusement. It’s getting dark, and Link and I should leave at first light if we are to make good time tomorrow. Dawn comes earlier every day.

I have to knock to announce myself, and my master calls me in. I can see from the threshold of his space that he is clearly hoping to use the bed for more than sleeping. I should have anticipated it, since we’ll be without one for at least a week, most likely longer, and he’s accustomed to the release it provides. There’s no room in the tent for bedroom athletics, and the lube went before the soap to manage the weight of our packs. I’ll still be able to relieve him on the road, but this is his last chance for some easy uphill gardening and I haven’t turned the mulch.

At least I don’t have to worry about mid-terms.

“Where’d you get that scarf?” He queries, hands rising as he strides across the room to touch it. “It’s covering your face.” The complaint explains the second section of Veran’s curse, though I can’t help the flush his flattery raises in my cheeks. I thought it was just a line he’s been feeding me to entice me to his bed, but obviously he means it. He…finds me attractive. Not disgustingly pretty, or too skinny, or shamefully small, or just overly spooky, marks and all. He’s so strange.

Another knock sounds at the door, and he sighs heavily before wrapping the towel intended to protect the sheets around his waist.

“Come in, come in.” Courteous as always, fucking noble about being interrupted, he lets Ulli into the room with Kahti right on her heels.

“Just some glowshrooms for the night, you can put the cover on to sleep, my Lord.” Ulli dips in something that could loosely be called a partial curtsey, setting a warmly radiant thick clay pot on the coffee table and curling her lip at me. Like it’s my fucking fault she didn’t bring them sooner and saw her employer in _flagrante_. At least she has half the sense that the Goddesses gave a Chu-chu, and leaves quickly. Kahti stays, smirking. I just want to curl up and pretend today didn’t happen. That it’s all been a particularly vivid fever dream.

Link’s no less ready to climb on my back when the door closes behind her, and I’m no more ready to receive him.

“What do you want, Mr. Skolkeeta?” Some of his impatience shows in his posture, but I cannot hear it in his tone. Kahti isn’t as adept at the Sight as I am, but it’ll take more than a towel covering the evidence and seemingly calm words to fool him. In fact, his reactions to Link’s obvious plans and piqued interest when he glances in my direction tell me he wouldn’t mind joining in. Pining me down as they take turns, one after the...

Fuck no. Never again.

“Many things, yes?” Kahti chuckles, clearly leering, his Modern Hyrulean lost to lust and a long day. “But need is first. I am to be coming with, to Castletown, to be a voice to Kaya. He can only answer questions, now. No rude words. No outbursts. No barking. It is funny, that the noisy one must now be quiet.”

“No. I need you here.” Link denies the thinly veiled demand, startling the both of us. “You can see things I can’t, because of what you are. Luda is the only other person here with any Sheikah heritage, and she is a child. I will not allow her to witness what may happen if this goes on much longer if I can at all help it. The glowshrooms and lanterns can’t sound an alert, and no one else can see as well as you can in the dark. I need Kaya with me, he’s the best mage I’ve got, and that means I need you here to guard the night.”

“I…oh. True. You…” Kahti sits down heavily on the couch and stares at the floor, breathing deeply. Thinking. I watch him until Link squeezes my hand.

“Go to bed. I’ll be there soon.” He promises, and sits down next to my…ex-lover? Friend? I want to stay, to help with what looks like a long and difficult conversation, but my master has spoken and my feet know the way. He didn’t order me to undress, or to get under the covers, and so I simply lay on the bed with my Goddess damned shoes still on and wait. I don’t even know that sleep is coming when it hits me like a truck and takes me under.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keeping! Up! With! Nano! Goals!   
That will never see the light of day!  
Screw editing!  
Wait...I need to edit before posting.  
...gdi.  
Next chapter will have more action, I promise!


	4. Brancher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As soon as they're packed and ready, Link sets out on the most direct path to Castletown...so of course things don't go according to plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW : Dubious Consent Oral Sex and Anal Fingering. Forced Silence.   
Warnings: mild violence, vague descriptions of topography

Kahti finally shuffles off back towards his room. The door closes behind him so softly it barely registers as I bury my face in my hands and try to breathe. Just…breathe.

There’s nothing I can do about it now. Not any of it.

That doesn’t mean I don’t want to.

Goddess.

_Oh, Tetra_. My love…stay strong. Stay _safe._

Vague, half thoughts flicker through my head as I concentrate on my breathing, trying to find some semblance of stability in a suddenly silent world. Without the bustle of people, the hum of electricity, the steady rush of water through the pipes, my own heart pounds with unseemly strength. Even Sheik’s melody is muted through the doorway to my bedroom where he disappeared…

…without a clock, I have no way of knowing what time it is. It has to have been at least an hour ago, though it feels like ages. The sun doesn’t set that quickly, and it’s full dark now. The glowshrooms give me enough light to stumble my way to the bed with a nebulous hope, quickly crushed, that he’ll be willing to let me love him. Instead, he hasn’t even undressed before falling asleep. His boots are still on, as is the seamless mask he has wound around his head, hiding his face from me and letting me catch only a glimpse of his eyes.

They’re closed, and flickering as he dreams. As early as we must leave in the morning – again, with no clock I cannot give a precise hour – sleeping like that can’t be comfortable. He usually sleeps on his side, not his back, and loosely braids his hair without any of the beads or bindings in it. He must have been exhausted, falling asleep like that. Making him more comfortable will be literally the work of moments, and distract me from the despair that my own exhaustion keeps bringing up.

I’d like to have some comfort. Anyone’s, if not my own. Setting the pot of last year’s reconstituted glowshrooms on his side of the bed, I drape the towel across the foot and start on his clothes. The laces on his boots are double knotted, and after struggling with the first, that realization makes removing the second much easier. Unbuckling his bandolier requires some strength and a little dexterity, and disturbs his rest so that he moans my name softly into the night.

“Link…” Kahti was wrong. He can speak, he’s just tired. That’s one less problem I need to deal with, and the relief of even a small amount of stress vanishing makes me relax enough that I might even get to sleep tonight. Especially if I can physically exhaust myself.

“Sorry for waking you.” I murmur my apologies. “I just wanted to make sure you were comfortable. Can I take off your clothes, re-braid your hair?”

“Yeah.” The gentle breath of acknowledgement is followed by his hands moving to undo the clasps of his jacket, lowering the zipper and wiggling out of it as I work at his belt and fly. He helps, lifting his hips for me to slide the heavy canvas from his legs. From the pace of his breaths and steady rhythm of his heart, I’m not expecting him to wrap the freed limbs around my waist, heels digging into the small of my back.

“Kaya? What are you doing? Aren’t you tired?” Not that I’m opposed to this. Having loved him once, I crave it more than ever. Sex with him has never been _bad_, but making love…that’s what I want. It’s what I need, tonight. What I was hoping for, before Kahti interrupted with valid but untimely questions and information. The greater portion of which appears to be erroneous. “Can I…?” I ask, hopeful. He’s responding normally, if a bit quieter than usual.

The red tinge to the skies and discordant wailing of the wind are enough to unsettle anyone, let alone someone who knows what it means. I don’t blame him for being quiet.

“Of course.” He grumbles, tightening his thighs and reaching for me with his hands to pull me flush against him, his hips already grinding. The erection that wilted as the sun set returns in short order with that kind of incentive.

“One moment.” I bend to kiss him, find his brow instead of his lips and change the contact to a quick peck before pulling away to grab the lubricant from my side table. As I walk around the bed, he places the towel where it will do the most good and rolls to the middle. In the dim glow of the uncultivatable mushrooms, his skin is a tarnished gold against the dark towel and white sheets. I can’t see the shadowed ridges of his ribs. The darkness blurs his hard edges, and softens his skin beneath my hands. With a dollop of lubricant, my fingers find a darker crevice yet.

He barely huffs into his pillow, focused too intently on relaxing himself for me. If he did any of the necessary work for this beforehand, it was a while ago, and barely noticeable now. It’s tight. Very tight…and as I delve further, fuller than before. That makes me hesitate, if only briefly. It’s not his fault. I should have come to him sooner.

I mean, I know what this part of him _does_, what it’s there for, beyond our mutual pleasures. I’m also the one that instigated, and would much rather he eat regularly than starve himself so there’s nothing to empty. It’s still a little revolting, and I wipe my fingers on the corner of the towel and contemplate calling the whole thing off. I’m achingly hard still, and he’s…quiet. Too quiet, and too uninvolved. Just lying there, now that I have the access to his body that I requested. 

“Sheik?” I call into the night, leaning over to check on my newest lover. Eyes closed, barely noticeable with his face turned from the jar of glowshrooms and covered by fabric, breath slow and even, body still. Wrong. If he is anything in the privacy of my bed, it is active and willing, and this…simulacrum…is not active. Because of that, I cannot assume willing, either. “Sheik? Open your eyes.” I don’t think he’s sleeping. How could he sleep with his face in the sheets and his butt in the air? He always sleeps on his side. Always.

His eyes flicker in the faint glow, and open as per my request. My instruction. My demand, and I know why the Witchfinder has banned the use of these ‘Gossip Stones’ if they result in _this_. Black scrolling lines of text pour free of his eyes like tears and cover his face entirely, crawling over the mark and I assume elsewhere. I can’t tell for sure, as I can only see them in the baleful glow of his bright red eyes. Casting. He’s casting something…or trying to.

The crescendo of vibration starts in my bones and works its way outwards until my hands are shaking and my teeth feel like they’re liable to rattle right out of my jaw. I clap my hands over my ears to try and block some of it out. That only displaces me, and Kaya’s bones aren’t a very soft place to land. He grunts beneath my sudden weight, harsh and panting, and doesn’t stop. Breathing hard, heart pounding, in what have to be the first honest sounds he’s made all night. Since he started speaking with the crooning woman directly, instead of Tye, Impa, or Purah.

I’ll know that voice if I hear it again.

Then he collapses, the sound screeching like a badly bowed viola, and the light goes out as his eyes close.

“Kaya? Kaya! Are you okay? Kaya! Can you hear me?” I push off of him and find his face in the dark by touch alone, the glowshrooms much too weak to make a difference after the intensity of his gaze. He doesn’t shove me away, though I feel his hand on my forearms and he bucks. I must be squishing him.

Sure enough, the moment I clear his hips, he rolls over onto his back and gasps in air, panting. I’m not expecting to be grabbed, and shriek myself as he burrows into my side. Startled to the point of paralysis, it takes a handful of shuddering breaths against my skin for me to relax and wrap my arms around his too skinny frame. From there, it’s easy to tell when the tension he’s carrying translates into a punch Ashei would be proud of, straight into the mattress. It’s hard enough that I bounce a bit before he finds me again and sighs, apparently content to just lay against me.

Or not. Cool air introduces itself between us once more, and the last of the light from the glowshrooms disappears with a ceramic scrape as he covers it with the plate. I still, and the bed dips as he returns, touching and tugging and pushing until I lay on my back on my side of the bed. I get a kiss on the lips - he can see just fine in the full dark of a cloudy night – for my troubles. I try to catch him, hoping for at least a little more kissing, and miss. The sheets hiss as he shifts, so I resign myself to the quick release of masturbation in order to sleep tonight. I don’t need a light for that, and reach down to start at the same time his mouth engulfs me whole.

Well then.

There’s no fabric in the way as I grab for his hair and find it. Hold tight and thrust up. He’s not expecting my full length so soon, and chokes a little as I find the back of his throat and keep going. I know he can take all I have to offer, but I still hesitate to be rough, to demand it of him. He deserves so much care and gentleness…but never asks for it. When his arms slide beneath my thighs and he presses down, I can’t help bucking up. He bobs. We dance.

I see stars when his nose is against my belly, but when I drag him up his fabric face covering is back in place and immoveable. I can hear him swallowing, and settle for curling around him and kissing the top of his head. He pats my arm, positions it around his waist to his satisfaction, and seems to drop instantly into deep dreaming.

It’s more difficult than I remembered to tug the blankets out from under him without disturbing his grip, but definitely worthwhile. Only when I have us safely cocooned and toasty warm can I sleep, too. Though technically earlier than we usually retire by probably hours, there is no point to staying up and staring at the darkness where my ceiling should be. If Kahti’s description of Sheik’s curse is accurate, then…I still need Kaya with me, and Kahti here.

By his own admission, Kahti cannot Gossip easily. I don’t _want_ Sheik to do it, but he clearly can, and safety is more important than comfort. I want him with me, if for no other reason than the fact he can keep me updated about Tetra’s status through those shadowed reports…and I need those. I _need_ to know she’s okay, until I can be by her side. Malon should be far enough away to avoid most of the chaos, but Tetra…Tetra is right in the middle of it, and one of the major players.

If I have to walk clear across Hyrule to make her safe again, then I will. Breathing in the scent of Sheik’s hair, clinging to the solid presence of him at my side, listening to the melody of his life, and knowing all the good I’ve been able to do for him, I can sleep.

When I wake, it is to his touch and an unshielded lantern with a lumistone core. Brighter than the glowshrooms but rarer and more difficult to handle, it allows me enough light to find the toilet and the sink for a scrub of more than my hands in the frigid spring meltwaters. I vow to clean myself with the water from my Silver Scale instead – until at least the start of summer – then and there, and then pray that I won’t need to. That this will all be over soon, Goddess willing. It doesn’t help my mood that it is literally the first light of false dawn. How Sheik managed to wake up so early without an alarm boggles me until I remember he’s been having screaming nightmares nearly every night since Grant was murdered.

There’s nothing I can do to help with that, and Grant is beyond caring. Sheik – Kaya – isn’t.

“Did you sleep enough?” I ask around a yawn, dressing myself for a stalk through Korokshire’s mists for at least the first quarter of the day. It’s the most direct route to Castletown, and we should come out on the highway in time to find a camp site by the end of the day, though only just. Provided Sheik can keep up, that is. Walking the woods isn’t the same as walking in the city, and he’s still so horribly thin despite the added muscle weight of the last two weeks. I can’t help but worry.

I’m going to forage as we go, and feed him constantly. There are enough buds and shoots and tender new leaves that we won’t lack for variety. It will also be necessary, since I can only carry so much with us, and a large portion of that weight goes towards my sword, shield, and bow. I’ve arrows enough since he’ll carry a quiver as well, but with his daggers and one of Ashei’s spears, I can’t risk over burdening him at the start.

“Yes, my Lord.” He replies, respectfully, instead of grouching out that he’d like more. It’s honest, at least, for he is dressed and nearly ready to go, including that odd swath of cloth about his head and face. That has to be hot, and stuffy, but will protect him from the dust, bugs, and sun. He just needs to put on his boots, we’ll pick up our packs, and then we’ll be ready.

But first, breakfast.

For all his regular breakfast seems bland and uninspired to me, it’s what is available even without electricity. Great large cauldrons of things are simmering over coals in the courtyard just outside the kitchen when we wander down, and one of them is oatmeal. Another is a bone broth that neither of us will get to taste, but smells wonderful. A third is simply water that Sue-Belle submerges six cucco eggs in when we appear, and pulls them out once we each have a bowl of oatmeal, a spoon, and a pot of courser bee honey between us.

She remains by the fires, keeping an eye on the cauldrons and their contents as she has been for hours already. A quick dunk in a bucket of stream water cools the eggs to an edible temperature, and Sheik stuffs two into his pockets for later while I save only one. We leave her our dishes to rinse with more of the hot water, and head to the western doors.

I make Sheik check his pack again before checking mine, tighten the right shoulder strap, and buckle the hip belt before adjusting my weapons for a moderate draw. I can’t have a quick draw for both, and don’t anticipate needing my sword just yet, though as the day progresses I may be able to hunt for our supper. Possibly. That means using my bow, and will depend on what kind of time we make now.

To that end, I check our bearing against my great-uncle’s compass, and head out into the early morning mists. They’re thick, and I find myself needing to keep my eyes on the compass face as landmarks are few and far between. Each ash and elm, yew, and larch and poplar looks similar to the one next to it, and I haven’t spent as much time in the woods as I’d like the last couple years. A few degrees off at the outset, and we could add days to what will already take five days at the very least. Sheik keeps close pace behind me, and goes so far as to take our rope and tie himself to my pack to avoid both losing sight of me and stepping on my heels.

With the space of three paces between us, I simply have to dodge trees, ponds, shrubbery, and stone. Luckily, some of the plant life that I’d hoped for is part of what we have to walk through, and I pull up a solid handful of chickweed to nibble as we go. The further we get into the wilds of Korokshire, the less of it there’ll be, but the more claytonia, fiddleheads, and hearty radishes we’ll find. Early endura carrots will be sprouting in the drier areas, while small ironshrooms and Hylian mushrooms are available every thirty or so paces.

I dare not leave our course for much, though, and pass a burdock clearing that could use a little pruning. Not that we brought shovels, but a little tugging and some judicious smacks with a rock work just as well. The leaves to the left prove it, and I pull up three of the plants as we go.

“Here, eat this.” I hand the whole hearty radish, barely the size of my thumb when it’s this young, back to Sheik, who takes it and knocks a bit more of the dirt off before biting down. Aside from the crisp mastication, he remains silent, so when the rustle and snapping sounds come from beside me instead of behind, I know they aren’t his fault.

In the grey whorls of mists disturbed by motion, a large shape looms a good meter overhead, and I dive and roll when it lunges. Unfortunately, I take Sheik down with me, and he gets fouled in the rope as I stand. The simple overhand knot he used on my pack’s belt lets go with a few tugs, and I stand stock still to try and figure out where whatever that thing was came from. I can’t hear breathing, or the footfalls of any kind of foot, so it has to be close by.

_Smacksmacksmack_ _rustlecreak groan_

There. I draw carefully, mindful of Sheik’s silence, and lunge.

“Hyah!” Exhale through the thrust, something small and hard at the end of my sword. Too thin to be a tree – and with as embarrassing as that would be I’m grateful – but too brittle to be a vine or shrub. Definitely wooden. I’ve sliced through enough sticks to recognize that much by the feel. But saplings don’t move independently, and aren’t top heavy.

That heavy top lands on the far edge of my pack, tugging me backwards. I keep my feet with a few steps for balance, and hear Sheik scamper across the loam of the forest floor. Still silent. That’s more disturbing than being attacked by the whatever-it-was…which he’s poking with a dagger, gurgling in disgust. I crouch next to him and turn the thing so I can see it clearly, and suspect my face holds a similar expression.

“What…?” It looks a little bit like a pitcher plant cross pollinated with a snap-trap and grew to monstrous size, but it has a tongue. And teeth.

“Deku Baba.” He names it, poking it again. Something beneath the…skin?...bursts, and a sticky green goo oozes out. That slimy substance kills everything it touches, and we both back up in haste. Then, like the Hinox, it goes up in a puff of black smoke and disappears, leaving behind a tooth, three leaves, something that glitters like amber, and the stick that made up its body.

Carnivorous plants shouldn’t be in Korokshire’s land, the soil is rich and dense with nutrients. That can’t have been a corruption of something that was already here, and with my faint memories of stories my mother told me about the woods as my only personal source of information, I have to turn elsewhere to fill in the blanks.

“What is a Deku Baba?” Having to ask him questions to get him to speak has already gotten old, and if I ever come across this Veran, I can’t promise I’ll be polite.

“A monster of the Era of Sky which resulted from intentional grafting between Deku-Scrubs and Corrupted Baba pitcher plants. Not fully either a Remnant or a Corruption, they are exceptionally weak to both cutting and fire. As you have just witnessed, their digestive sack contains a corrosive nitric acid. Their winnowing leaves resemble teeth, and the sticky fly-paper adaptation is reminiscent of a mammalian tongue. Once defeated, their nature is revealed as they decompose in a…”

“Got it.” I cut his flat, toneless recital off. There wasn’t a single swear word peppering his litany with some emphatic zest or sarcastic bite, and I feel the lack keenly. “Should we do anything about the remains?”

“Burning the leaves will prevent the acid from harming plant life in the immediate vicinity and return the nitrates to the soil. The lightweight body is of a neutral pH, and may be safely handled. Though brittle, it burns as well seasoned wood, and should provide excellent tinder.” While he talks, I find the coil of rope and reattach it to my belt, unwilling to lose him in the thinning mists.

“Burn it, please.” Snatching up the straight beam of dry and grainy wood, I wave towards the rest. A second later he grunts out an unintelligible half syllable, and the leaves and tooth-leaf thing erupt in flame. It curls in like paper a breath later, and then nothing is left but ash. I kick dirt over _that_ to ensure the fire is truly out, and scour the ground for my last set of clean footprints. After all that work, if I don’t set us true, there’s no telling when or where we’ll meet up with the surrounding roads.

Compass in hand, bearing set, nerves alive and dancing, we start out towards Castletown once again. It’s usually around ten in the morning when the mists have cleared off, and so I count that as my time and come up short. We should be further into the woods than we are, though the three additional Deku-Babas, a Deku-Scrub, and bear eating a Deku-Scrub have slowed our progress considerably. It may take two or two and a half days to cross Korokshire and get to the highway instead of my anticipated one and a bit at worst.

It’s not Sheik’s fault – he’s kept up well – but we’re going to need to camp earlier than I’d hoped and set up alternating watches. My home isn’t safe anymore. Not that wild woods are free of danger, but natural dangers can be anticipated and mitigated. With strange creatures popping up unexpectedly in places they shouldn’t, I can’t prepare for them, and can’t keep him safe. I can’t even keep myself safe.

It rankles. I shove another juvenile endura carrot at him and bite one of my own to relieve some of my frustration, then push for the slanted outcropping that we should have been at an hour ago to stop for lunch. As rest points go, it’s actually better than the hillock I’d initially intended to have lunch at, because between the stream, shade, light, and different elevations, I can cobble together an actual meal within the local micro-environment and save our rations for later. Unlike in the surrounding farmland – where foraging like this would count as both trespassing and theft – on _my_ land, my _home_, I can forage all I want. Sheik can help, and learn a bit of some survival skills at the same time.

Once I point out the Hyrule herb, leeks, and fleet-lotus for him to gather, and specify both quantity I want and not to pluck more than five percent of any given growth, he can manage that much easily. I bait my hook with a caterpillar grub, using a green wind-fall branch as a rod, and cast well away from the lotus patch. It doesn’t take long for the fish to bite.

The leeward side of the outcropping still has the circle of stone from last year’s gatherers using it, and I’m surprised by the offerings Sheik’s managed to hunt down in the time it took me to pull in two larger Mighty carp. The smaller ones I released to the stream again, and these two bullies would have eaten them eventually. This way, we get a meal, and a younger generation gets to fill the waterway. My filet knife gets to work as Sheik sloshes through the water barefoot, and I’ll have to scold him about that later, but with the way he’s splashing I can’t curtail his fun.

It makes me smile too much to put a stop to it, and he _is_ being careful where he puts his feet. I have to remind myself that he can probably see any danger through the clear running water easily, and turn back to pay attention to where I stick my knife. It’s sharp, and would cut through my hands as easily as the fish if I slip.

I want to save our fire starters if I can, though, and that means I’ll need his help in a moment. While he roots out another lotus, I can peel, chop, and prepare what he’s already gathered. I may not be a great cook like Gillian or Telma, but after my first summer alongside the seasonal workers harvesting the bounty of my family’s land I learned enough to be proficient over an open flame…or at least not accidentally poison anyone.

Using some of the oil from heating the fleet-lotus seeds means we can snack on the seeds themselves as I toast a handful of rice first, adding in the roots, leaves, mushrooms and fish over time to make a quick, dirty, and land-bound sorta-paella. It needs salt, but is still tasty, though Sheik frowns at me over the last six spoonfuls and won’t let me leave the pot until we’ve eaten it all, even though the local scavengers would take care of the remains quickly.

Goddess, I miss his mouthy commentary. It hasn’t even been half a day. I miss simply seeing his mouth, too, though that fabric protects his caramel skin from becoming caramelized even better than my cap protects me. While we digest, I skewer the extra mushrooms he collected and roast them to preserve them. We douse the fire and bury the ashes. The broad brimmed pot I used gets washed in the stream and stuck back on his pack, and I check his feet for small cuts and make sure they’re completely dry before he puts his socks and boots back on.

Then it’s upstream to the stone ford to cross, and back downstream to return to the proper path. Two more Deku Babas sprout before the sun’s angle is noticeably different, and I hear something skittering that I don’t recognize but don’t see, and it thankfully doesn’t attack. I won’t take us off our path to investigate, either. Tetra is in trouble, and I need to go to her. We can’t dawdle, or even go investigate the strange world my lands have become.

We also can’t be fools. Well before sunset I stop us at the edge of Chio’s Rest and start the search for previous camp sites. The scattered beams of sunlight that break through the striated foliage alternately illuminate and obscure, the wind making the leaves both dance and sing, and I have to wonder what Sheik thinks of this place. Tetra loves it – though we can’t get out here often – and Malon is probably the most avid hiker I know and can outpace me easily. She would have loved to see that bear, though from a safer distance than we did. Tetra would love to be here, now. Chio’s Rest itself is breathtaking, more so than any other place within Korokshire’s bounds.

Mom always said that the children of the forest used to play here, but if there are any here now they’ve long since grown up. Every tree is old-growth, spaced appropriately, and remarkably healthy even for a cultivated arbor. That everything is wild grown is remarkable. It would take five of me to encircle a single one of the smaller trees with my arms, and the biggest one…well, that one takes up the entire north side of the clearing, and dwarfs the others in its immensity.

That clearing is all that’s left of _something_, the stone too evenly shaped to be anything but purposefully placed, even though it’s worn past recognition of what it once was. Precise angles, repeating whorl patterns, and a solid stone base have been overgrown, covered in detritus, eroded, and filled by centuries of abandonment, but even I can see that the original clearing was not natural. Some type of creature capable of intelligent design made it…though it was not Rito, Human, Hylian, Goron, Gerudo, or Zora.

From the way Sheik freezes and looks around, not Sheikah, either. That’s not surprising, for even though he is slightly shorter than I am he’s not as small as whatever this place was made for. Probably the Kokiri, though as all the different peoples go they’re a relatively recent addition, and this place is older than that. Much older. Possibly Twilight Era. Maybe. The remains of a stone archway only come up to his hip…or would, if the keystone wasn’t missing and the arch crumbled. The first branching of the great tree next to it is more than three times his height, so it’s definitely been a while since the forest took over.

Long enough since anyone has camped here, too. I can find no sign of fire pits or stakes for tents, even though I know this place is regularly used as a base camp for the foraging that brings Korokshire the majority of its income in the form of rare plants and minerals. Without signs of interference, I can freely choose any of the alcoves made by the forest giants to set our tent, kindle our fire, and make our camp for the night.

It’s a little more intense and in depth than I’d thought at first to introduce Sheik to my ancestral home, and the thought reminds me to do just that. One of the smoother levels of stone is mostly clear of everything aside from moss, nearly flat, and positioned before the great tree as though it was initially part of a dais. That seems best, and I tug on the rope to get Sheik to come stand there with me. He stops two steps behind me and one to my right, and I don’t have the heart to yank him around anymore so that he stands even.

“Great Forest Spirits, I am Link, and this is my friend, Kaya. We come in peace, and offer you our thanks for safe passage through your woods, with this small token of gratitude.” I call, not shouting, but pitching my voice to carry as far as it will. As mom taught me to, I leave one of the dozens of scattered Korok seeds on the ground in front of me, and bow deeply to the biggest tree here. Even if it’s superstitious and looks dumb, the only one here to complain about it is Sheik, and a day of marching at his side has confirmed he’s been rendered mute by Veran’s curse.

Kahti was telling the truth. It sucks. More for him than for me, and I personally _hate_ it.

“Shalaka! So we meet again!” A voice booms out, and the ground shudders. This time it’s Sheik who keeps his feet and I’m the one to stumble over the rope connecting us. The earthquake makes the tree branches sway and creak alarmingly, and I haul my shield off my back to cover my head, hoping none of the larger branches break off and crush us both.

The ground has barely stopped moving when Sheik rapidly slaps my arm and tugs on the rim of my shield, stopping only when I lower it and gesturing wildly. I raise my head where he points, and am glad I’m sitting down. I need to sit down. I am sitting down.

It’s so…_big._

“Oh ho ho! It has been a long time since you visited me, Link! Very long. You haven’t grown at all!” The biggest tree booms, branches swishing, leaves rustling as it bends, bringing a very big face very, very close as the roots lift the stone we stand on upwards. Not being as flat as I am, the motion rocks Sheik much harder than it does me, and he slides right off the edge as I stare, horrified, unable to move without losing my own footing. He disappears from view with nothing more than a scrape of his boots against the bark. 

The rope doesn’t snap tight with his weight and drag me after him, getting my heart out of my throat and beating again. Enough that I start getting to my feet – needing to move despite uncertain balance and reference points – to go to him. To help.

“Owchies! Your friend has prickles!” The big tree thing groans, roots still shifting around me to haul him back up, dangling, daggers stuck in the car sized root hilt deep. With a twist and a wriggle, the blades lose their purchase in the wood, and he drops heavily back onto the stone platform, staggering. “I don’t like prickles.”

Sheik scrambles to the center of the platform with me and flattens himself on it, panting.

“S…sorry. He doesn’t like falling.” I stammer, and shrug at the wild look in Sheik’s eyes and rapid tattoo of his heart, certain that my eyes are just as wide. My pulse certainly matches his. He whines in the back of this throat, something I’m certain would contain a plethora of invectives were he able to form words.

“I am sorry, little friend. Shalako, I forgot how much rootless people move.” The tree thing apologizes, with what I think are eyebrows the size of motorcycles rise in joy. It sounds like joy. “Oh! Yes! You move!” It shimmies - reminding me that being horizontal is the best course of action at the moment – chortling with glee. “Can you help me find my maracas?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MY FAVORITE CHARACTER TO COSPLAY EVER IS HEEEEEERE!


	5. Rambling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sheik swears. A lot. Cursed with Silence, it's all in his head, but when your allies could accidentally kill you and your enemies seem determined to try, what else are you supposed to do?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: I don't think anything is bad enough to warrant a trigger warning, though there are things that call for content warnings. If you disagree, poke me and I'll change it.  
Warnings: language, vague descriptions of body functions, surprise monster attacks, more language, Koroks

Note to self, find Princess Tetra immediately. Better yet, collect Lady Malon as well, warn everyone at Temple and in the _konklavar_, and run like the legendary horse Link’s car was named after. Don’t look back, don’t stop, and for Farore’s sake don’t even think about slowing down.

“Ya ha ha!”

Don’t murder the little leaf-faced bastards. Especially when their guardian is directly overhead. It’d be so easy for that fucking gargantuan chunk of wood to make me at once both shorter and more compact than I am now, and like fuck do I need to be ground into the dirt literally as well as metaphorically speaking. The Lindsey Creek Redwood was estimated to weight around 1.8 million kilos, and was approximately a quarter of his size. According to the scale in Link’s salle, I’m 48.7 kilograms.

Hestu sitting down would make me a pancake. Not even a pancake. A crepe. Maybe a formed and pressed potato chip. Possibly washi paper, really, if I wasn’t simply obliterated on impact and turned into mulch. He’s so _fucking _huge that…

“Here…” Link says, interrupting my contemplation of oneness with the firmament as the towering mass calling itself Hestu forgets we’re beneath him and lowers himself down onto us, crushing us into a fine paste. Sheikah-butter spread with some Hylian Jelly. Mm-mm tasty. I’m not inbred enough to be a sandwich. At least, I don’t think so.

Not knowing who your parents are makes things a little awkward, sometimes. At least with generationally recorded bloodlines resulting in the Hylian stud that is my master, I don’t have to worry about incest.

“…supper.” If you can’t keep it in your pants, at least keep it in the family. Or under a talking tree half the size of the Mamamu Yan Memorial Library, with all its little creepy staring stalker children watching you like a cat with a laser pointer, just waiting to pounce. Bloody fucking unnerving buggers don’t even have eyelids to blink as they stare at you in an already piss inducing scenario in the middle of nowhere where no one can hear you scream.

Not that I can, anyway. Scream, that is.

Note to self, murder Veran. I can’t even cuss properly, and that’s doing nothing for my anxiety. My stomach is in knots, chest aching, throat choking, and all of it ready to board the up-chuck express at the first sign of provocation.

And, damn it all to the Dark Realm and back, whatever Link’s made for supper still smells good.

“Eat, Sheik.” Link insists, sitting down next to me instead of going back across the fire where he could watch my back and I could watch his. That’d be too fucking easy. With the little Koroks darting about the big one constantly and the sun nearly set I can’t tell if the movements I see are one of them or Hestu deciding he doesn’t like the small fire Link’s kindled burning beneath his roots and is shifting to mush us. The firelight’s faint enough that the seamless _hudtar_ covering my face has vanished into the shadows, so I know my _domine_ can’t see well enough to actually warn me of any danger. That doesn’t mean I can’t pretend.

Note to self, murder Veran _first_. Even with my gut roiling fit to burst, Link said eat. So I eat, needing to drink heavily between each bite to force it down and keep it there, and hoping that it’ll stay the night. Or at least long enough not to offend my master when I go and hurl, provided I can remember where the trench is. If it’s still there. Hestu keeps shifting, which moves his roots, which moves the earth we’re sitting on, which convinces my stomach that it needs to move, too. Either direction, really, though I hope of the two primary options it chooses up.

Saints and Sages I do not want to have an instant coffee incident drain out of me tonight.

Should have thought of that before leaving civilization, Kaya. Should have thought of a lot of things. Too late now. Dumbass. Might as well try putting toothpaste back in the tube with your feet while you’re at it.

“I’ll clean up and take first watch, you can go to bed. Get some sleep.” The Hero murmurs, taking my empty plate and stacking them to be cleaned later while the food sits in my stomach like a toad in a t-shirt. Wrong, slimy, and ready to hop out. “You remember how?”

“Yes.” The word that comes from my mouth is clear and defined and doesn’t express any of my coiled khaki frustration. I’m not an idiot. No shit going to bed in a tiny tent is a more involved process than flopping on the monstrosity of a mattress he normally sleeps on, especially when all our gear has to fit inside as well. It’d be nice if he could remember I lived in a dorm with less than twice the floor space for years. I can handle a snug fit.

Yes, like that too. Even if I am still a little confused about last night, I’m not confused about the want that hums through my veins like the music in Ikana Bar after one too many drinks on a work-night.

Of course, he’s obliquely ordered me to bed, and so I go. Our bags are already stowed, but I’m wearing most of my weaponry and that needs to come off before I get in. My boots as well. After yesterday with the whole _fucking Resurgence of the Calamity_, I’m reluctant to think anything is impossible, but stripping inside the tent would be difficult enough to not be worth the effort.

Getting naked outside at night in the early spring breeze is also as dumb as being a professional dart goalie, and just as dangerous to my hide. I bundle my daggers, lay the spear with the pointy end resting between my boots, and roll my jacket carefully. I’ve sweat enough over the course of the day to soak my undershirt, and wring out the evidence before draping it to dry over the tent. It’s cold enough that if I were a Goron instead of a spook my nipples could cut glass, and while it’s dark enough and far enough from the fire that Link can’t see my skin, he’s not the only one watching.

“Sheikah!”

“The mark! The mark!”

“Ya ha ha!”

“Mr. Sheikah is really pretty!”

“Look at the shimmers!”

“A Sheik, a Sheik!”

“SHALAKA!” Hestu’s deeper voice sends the small ones as silent as I am. “A Sheik! Where is Queen Zelda, if a Sheik is here? I did not see her arrive!”

“I Look to Link, Hestu.” I call to answer the assumption that lead to his question, and he rumbles and shudders, as stumped as clear-cut logger leaves old growth woods.

…Din damn it, being bound to Link takes the vindictive enjoyment I might once have had from that thought. Now I just feel guilty as well as annoyed on top of the anxiety that’s my base state of existence. It’s not the Koroks’ fault that most plants have no identifiable brain, but it is my fault for judging them against an unsuitable metric, and letting my resentment affect my discernment.

Doesn’t mean I’m not going to complain, at least to myself.

Good Lady, do I want to swear. Out loud. Even once.

“Oh ho ho! Yes, I remember now! Queen Zelda had to go away. Everyone was sad, shalako. I could not dance.” The words from above echo below, but he asks no further questions, so I cannot answer any questions he may have. Reminder to kill Veran. The little ones stay quiet as well, leaving me to finish obeying Link while they watch and watch and watch and watch.

Even though I zip the tent closed and have been commanded to rest, sleep does not come easily, and doesn’t last long enough to truly nightmare. Just enough for an acrid taste of fear and increase to my already overflowing anxiety. Movement, and faint sounds from outside the nylon shelter the most likely cause for that and my waking.

“Move over a bit, I’m coming in.” Link grunts, his hands tracing my side from the ankle up. I crack open an eye while he closes the tent again and crawls to his sleeping bag so he doesn’t accidentally crush anything he shouldn’t, then force myself to sit up. My turn to take over the watch, then, through the deep of the night. It’s very deep indeed, for I can’t see anything outside even before he closes the flap. I can, however, see his heat as he settles next to me. He’s always so warm. “Irch said he’d keep watch for us, and Hestu closed his roots. We’re safe. Go back to sleep.” He yawns, one arm pressing against my chest to pull me back down next to him. Not having much say in the matter, I do.

Right back into unsettling visions, though not a made for T.V. adaptation of the original hit movie. This one is new, and already disgustingly familiar. Just because I know I’m dreaming, I know this nightmare, doesn’t mean it won’t play out. I’m almost numb to it now, the latest in the collection, and give only a token struggle to escape the inevitable. I know I can’t, just like he couldn’t. Because it’s not a dream, it’s a memory. When the knife finally bites deeply it’s a relief more than anything else. A weight off my chest as my – his - life-blood pours out into bowls set on a wooden floor.

We found him on a cement roof.

“Ya ha ha!”

“Good morning! Good morning!”

“Get up! Get up!”

“The Great Korok Hestu wishes you awake! The fate of his maracas is now at stake!”

“Ya ha ha!”

“Ya ha ha!”

“Tell me I can’t kill them.” Link mutters into my nape, a direct order. One that I can take utter _delight_ in obeying.

“You can’t kill them.” Not if I get to them first. Before Veran, even. The weight on my chest shifts, and Link’s lips touch where his breath only hinted, making me shiver in a way that has nothing to do with the temperature.

“Thanks, Kaya.” He whispers, and rolls over with a groan as my face decides to warm the inflatable pillow an extra degree.

“Awake! Awake!”

“Ya ha ha!”

“Good morning!”

“Hooooo…” He exhales. “Might as well get up before they figure out how to work the zipper.”

“Ngh.” I grunt, putting as much disgust into the tone of it as I can and making him laugh.

“You can say that again.”

“Ngh.” I oblige him, and rub my face with my hands to get some of the grit from my eyes. The rest of it is covered with the accursed _hudtar_ once more, and I sigh in disappointment. I’ve gotten accustomed to an overly affectionate asshole kissing me, and I might just be starting to like it. And miss it. The jerk. I’m also used to breakfast at this point, which is disconcerting to say the least.

Because I know my purpose better than my _domine_ seems to remember, I push him back down to his sleeping bag so I can get out of the glorified baggie he calls a tent first. If the tiny Koroks intend mischief, best to find it with my face instead of his. He’s needed. I’m just convenient.

“Oh? You wanna?” He drawls, misinterpreting the gentleness of my shove for an invitation. In the lime green nylon confines he doesn’t have to move much to reach, making me slap his hands away from the boy bits. Not that I _don’t_ wanna, but it’s neither the time nor the place for it. If we could exchange the audience for lube, fuck yes, in fact, and the lube is negotiable. Unfortunately, despite how exceedingly fond I am of the little rooty bastards, we can’t.

“Yes.” Is all that escapes my mouth, and I have to hustle my ass out to avoid having it impaled on either of his swords. I was right, too. The smaller Koroks have all the mischief of a box full of raccoon kits. At least I don’t have to wash yesterday’s undershirt, though I do need to wring it out to dry it a little, and empty my boots. Of course, I only figure _that _out after putting my foot in the first one.

“Cleaned it! Cleaned it!” A tan and beige and moss brown one slightly taller than the rest has a cordate leaf over what is supposed to be its face, and it dances in place out of sheer perverse joy in soaking my clothing and the campsite and calling it clean. At least it smells better, though that could be the enormous nuts roasting by the ashen embers of last night’s fire.

Standing up tells me that before I dress, there’s one thing I need to do despite the chill. Something I have to attend to before I soak the campsite myself, and even if Hestu closed off his roots last night, they’re wide open now, giving me a clear sightline to the ovoid stone that Link dug the shit pit next to. I don’t run, but I don’t dawdle, either.

“Shaka! Shakaka! You are nekkid!” Hestu rocks in place, nearly causing me to tumble into my goal and actually need a bath instead of just want one. I have my briefs and my damp boots on, but apparently the finer points of basic humanoid anatomy are lost on him... “I am nekkid!” …or not. “We are united in exposure!”

Oh, Goddesses.

“Nekky!”

“Nokky!”

“Nakey!”

Fuck it. I really need to water the trees, so I might as well give the little turd burglars a Sheikah physiology lesson at the same time. They won’t be the first strangers to see my dick, let alone my skin.

“Ya ha ha!”

“Ya ha…AAAAAaaaaaaah!” As the small Koroks scatter like leaves in the wind I practice my aim squirting the dirt, then spend some time in quiet contemplation of life’s mysteries. Having left my own offering of a single, larger version of the things Link used to wake Hestu and cleaned myself up, I spend a moment thanking the Three that the magic inherent in our Silver Scales is still functioning. This journey would be exponentially more difficult without them. Worse than trying to learn Zoran grammar from a Yeti, though that wouldn’t take as long.

Link takes my place securing the perimeter as I head back to find my shirt drying by the fire, the rest of my clothing neatly folded on my pack, and the tent back in its bag, ready to go. There’s some residual warmth from the coals keeping the two skull size nuts warmer than the surrounding air by a significant margin, hopefully containing breakfast. Chilled takes precedence over hungry, so I dress from the top down and make sure my feet and footwear are dry before wrapping my legs and lacing the boots over top.

My master makes no effort to hide his return to our campsite, and immediately sits next to me again with a beleaguered sigh, all matte and muddled intensities. If I were as blind as a naked mole rat and as foolish as the Korok stuck upside-down in the trench where one of Hestu’s roots was before he lifted it, I’d know something is wrong. Since I am neither blind nor ridiculous – and he needs something and isn’t talking about it – I get to prod it out of him so we can move on to today’s tasks.

Goody. According to an infamous fictional sea-witch, I shouldn’t underestimate the importance of body language. _I _can read it easily. My _domine_ has to make do with the equivalent of the beta-version of an online text to voice translator going through three different languages.

…damn it all.

I can’t fucking talk without it feeling like my tongue is being torn from my mouth with an electric fork and then pickled. Veran’s work is too thorough to fight against without pressing reason, a minor eternity of time, and more energy than I have to spare. Fortunately, I have other methods at my disposal to make Link gush. He responds well to tactile contact. It’s one of the reasons he’s good in the sack, and even with my face covered and tongue bound in Shadows, I can use that to draw him out of this miserable funk he’s gone back to like a dog comes back to vomit.

Dwelling won’t cage the Calamity, and won’t get us any closer to Princess Tetra. I would know, I’ve practically made dwelling an art form. Half a lifetime of disappointment and repeated trauma will do that to a guy. I may not be able to just “get over” it, but I sure-as-shit-flows-downhill can keep on going anyway.

Nudging his shoulder with my own to prepare him for a change of circumstance, I feel odd as I rest my head on his shoulder. Unsure. It makes me hesitant, and Nayru knows that’s fucking unusual because She normally helps guide me towards the right path _before_ vague uncertainty hits. That whisper of warning, of expectation, is gone, and for a moment of obfuscated ambiguity, I freeze.

Then Link’s right hand is wrapping around my left, his left coming up to pat my head.

“I miss Tetra.” He tells me, soft as velvet. Even if I could speak through the searing pain of Veran’s binding, I’m smart enough not to. Kafei might manage to be endearing as he blends awkward, trite, and occasionally vapid together into a charming whole, but that is simply a mask he wears to hide his white picket fence ambitions. I am not him. My masks are of a different sort…most of which are effectively destroyed here beyond the last vestiges of civilization where I must rely _entirely_ on someone else to survive.

That, more than anything, rankles. Whatever possessed him to take _me_ when there are so many better options available to him, so many of his people much more capable in this uncivilized environment, is…

I was entirely unaware I could still put my heel to my forehead, and my tendons scream at the strain even as the air is knocked from my diaphragm and I smell day old socks. I roll - away from the fucking fire thank you - sucking in air and choking on it even as Link manages to find his feet.

“Ow! Ow, damn it. Sheik, where is it?” Link shouts, taking up his sword but foregoing his shield.

“Where is what?” I croak for clarification. A descriptive element would be great, thanks, especially with the ghosts and mists thick as molasses everywhere I turn. The tent hasn’t moved, and neither have the nuts that hopefully contain breakfast. Even the Koroks…are gone. They move fast when they want to, the little shits.

“Ah! Prickles! Go away prickle bugs!” Hestu whines, great bulk shuddering as he protests the presence of our mutual plague invading his nether regions. I’d ask what crawled up his ass and died, but they’re not dead yet. Scanning the area for movement, for heat, for the miasma that I’m learning is the sign of a Corruption in the low light with my forehead aching and wrist warming from the Tears of Light. I ignore my master completely as I focus on the search. The gleam of a reflective carapace gives me what I need to respond to Link and incentive to do it as fast as I fucking can. The flickers of red and violet electrical discharge tell me which ones to target first.

“Sheik!” He bellows as one of them skitters over his foot.

“Shadow Insects on your two, five, and nine.” I call, but they move faster than a scalded cat and he barely nicks the one at his nine before they’ve scurried away. At least they aren’t Vengas, to spread their corruption wherever they go, even after death. These are a Remnant. They should return to the Dark Realm or wherever demon spawn are bred. The Fissure, maybe. Still have to end them, first.

“Nooooooo. Go away!” Our current shelter from the rising sun moans. “Bad prickle bugs!”

Where’s that fucking spear? My cantrips are all as useful as trying to polish a crow, but the spear’s wooden handle will keep me from being shocked even as the blade will slice, dice, and make julienne fries out of our horribly named insectoid attackers.

It says a lot about the people doing the naming and what they think of Sheikah for this particular nomenclature. If I stab the one that used to be at Link’s five behind the first segment at the fragile joint connecting its head to its body a _little_ more viciously than called for, well, I need to know how much force it actually takes to kill the fuckers before I can report to anyone with authority. Remnants, Corruptions, monsters, cryptids and the ancient dead…I know of them, but it’s theoretical. Mostly theoretical, now. One is not a sufficient sample size for a reliable conclusion.

Time to get more samples.

Link yelps as my spear tip misses his thigh by a good three centimeters and catches the thorax of another shadow insect left of center. It stops twitching and sparking before I dare seek out the next, Hestu wailing and quivering as they keep either shocking or biting him. Or both. The crumbling texts the rest of the _esclavin_ brats and I studied from never said what Shadow Insects eat. Verbal, anthropomorphic trees the size of institutional buildings seems as likely as anything else.

Something chinks as the shadow insect returns to the Dark Realm, glowing softly, but I don’t have time to see what kind of innards it leaves behind when there are at least a dozen of them left to deal with. Shifting my grip down the smooth wood, I lunge for the next one already gathering a charge to shock its intended target and drive the point of my spear through it laterally. The tiny amber spark falling into the rich loam is vaguely familiar, and there’s one burrowing beneath where Hestu’s root system has parted to let in the morning breeze.

I give chase. Link moves, finally grabbing his shield. Not that it’ll do much against this particular Remnant, but _I_ feel better for him having that protective equipment and additional weapon. Before we leave here, I’m casting Nayru’s Love on us both. Again. The bug burrows quickly, but I don’t need to dig. I just need to jump, and use my weight to drive the tip through the loose earth and insect both. Rolling to mitigate some of the force helps me tug the spearhead free, and I keep a tight grip that will leave blisters as I spin to free the clumps of earth that cling to it. Then keep spinning for the momentum to slice through some dead vines that hide another Insect and send it scuttling away.

“OWCHIES!” Hestu cries, totally over-reacting to the shallow gash I left on his root. It’s not even the length of my hand, and barely nicked the first layer of his bark. No sap bubbles to the surface, but I can’t help feel guilty enough to return after killing the Insect and laying my hand over the wound. I…haven’t studied Korok anatomy at all. If he’s actually a Korok, whatever a Korok is. Just the Rito, Zora, Goron, Gerudo, Yeti, Sheikah, Human, and of course Hylian. All mammalian, though the Zora are weird and the Gorons push the boundaries of that definition, technically all being male until… something…. happens that our introductory textbook was exceedingly vague about.

I don’t know how to help him heal. I may just make it worse. But it’s my fault.

I do know most pruning sealants simply cover the area and prevent the tree from healing as trees are supposed to. Possibly trapping moisture and bacteria inside. I don’t want to cause more damage than I already have to our unanticipated ally, whether he be tree, Korok, or something in between. They’re living things. I can stimulate living things…sort of. Gathering the energy is simple, but converting it into something…

Saints and Sages Kaya you unmitigated idiot. Trees use _light_ to grow, same as Shadows. Deeper, longer, stronger, whatever. What strengthens you strengthens him.

Link is going to pitch a fit, complete with floats, balloons, and a full marching band.

But this is my fault. I’m out of practice with all the weapons I carry. Were I not, I never would have misjudged my strike.

Closing my eyes, I inhale deeply and find that spark in the depths of me that lets me cast my magic. My heritage lets me see it build in my hands as I call only one half of the balance into being, growing chilled as the Shadow excess sinks into my skin. The Light sends more of the Shadow Insects fleeing, and I form the sign of the horns with my hand to ward off illness and press the skin of my palm against his bark. Let it flow.

“Oh…oh! That’s nice, shalaka!” He chirps. When I pull my hand back there’s only a small seam of resin to mark where the nick was, and a handful more Insects to kill.

“Hya!” The exhalation startles me, but it really shouldn’t. Link’s quick, and watched me kill five of them. They always spark and crackle before they move, but his tally is still impressive since I have to assume he can’t see them like I can. The previous shouting would be my indicator, but again, it’s an assumption. He’s got three to my five, which quickly becomes four. Then he evens the score. Precision strikes for each of them, no wasted motion, no stumbling or over-reaching himself. Just like he’s practiced, albeit with less mobile targets. It’s not his fault the inanimate ones don’t move, and the animate ones he’s not allowed to kill.

And now I can’t get good old floppy green-spandex out of my head. Or Mallar. Fuck, it was such a good morning, too. At least there’s no chance of that psychopath finding me wandering about in the wilderness like this, thank the Fierce Deity. There’s no one around to accuse me of attacking him if I’m only defending myself. Provided I don’t freeze up, and can manage to use the weapons I have at my disposal. I think I can. I’m almost certain that Link wouldn’t hold back either, should that psychopath come after me while he’s watching.

Almost. And if he’s not watching, well…Sir Dorian certainly didn’t seem to care what my foster father was doing. Or what happened to Meg. Poor Meg. I don’t know what happened to either of them. Or what happened to Rusl after the trial, for that matter. Those that I _do_ know about make me glad for the ones I don’t. For myself, I only have hearsay and court transcripts, and neither of them tell my side of the story. I don’t even get to tell my side of the story. Not that I want to, when telling it makes me relive what fragments I remember in all their gory detail. Best to focus on the present as much as I can. Compartmentalize, with a strong emphasis on the mental part.

Now, there are two more Insects of inappropriate nomenclature to hunt down. I can brood over the things my now officially diagnosed anxiety says I need to brood over later. The last thing I need is to fall into a physical pit while I’m caught in one made up entirely of memories. Finding the Shadow Insects is easy, I just have to catch the faint sheen of a bioelectric carapace in the uncertain light and by Din’s Flaming arms and all the Saints and Sages besides, Link is a fucking _beast_. While I was busy gathering dust, he’s managed to track down and eliminate all but one of the…all of the Insects.

Holy shit.

Not that they’re difficult to kill. Easy as the Vengas, in fact, aside from the females. Those, like most insects, are a bit better built, as social as a cannibal, and a smidge to a cubic fuckton larger than the “less useful to the species” males. Twilit Bloats – the Shadow Insect females – are around par with certain types of wasps for both sexual dimorphism and murderous intent.

I mean, I knew that, but _holy fucking aerosolized shit particles _that thing is bigger than Hestu’s eyebrow ridges and grosser than the congealed tangerine glop that sometimes leaks out of the wrong end of a sick baby.

“Uh, Sheik?” My master calls, stepping back from the already fading carcass of his last kill, the glowing fragment of amber quickly covered in rich black soil as the Bloat takes to the air, leaving dozens of faintly glimmering mucus covered sacs behind. Eggs. Putrid, slime covered, Remnant filled eggs, each with another queen pulsating inside…or rather egg _sacks_. They’re either very close to hatching, or waiting. For food. Which the Bloat sent the Shadow Insect workers to collect. And we killed. And now it’s pissed.

Fucking perfect.

There is no possibility that the thin, daggered wings are capable of supporting the sheer mass of the Bloat in flight, just like there’s no way the six spindly limbs aren’t as creepy as the pedophilic uncle trope and twice as grabby. False eye-markings cover protuberances that look remarkably like frog’s tongues when they emerge from its gelatinous abdomen, and the small hairs or stingers at the end point seem to twitch and buzz like an angry hornet. It – she – hovers, considering which one of us poses the biggest threat; the one with the sword that killed most of her babies, the massive stompy tree, or the one with the spear in one hand and magic in the other.

Those compound eyes whirl with malice as she decides to just kill us all and yup, those are stingers. Stingers, pinchers, sticky tongues, probable paralytic poison from whatever wasp-induced nightmare-fueled unstable spawn of the Dark Realm came up with the fuckers in the first place, and sonic weaponry beyond my ken that’s dropped Link to his knees. Fuck me with a fence post, but that means unless I want us all to be baby Bloat burgers, I’ve got to drop it, and drop it fast.

Nayru’s Love gives me a small defensive boost without compromising my ability to work the _seithr _skeins further like Daruk’s Protection does. Din’s Fire is a no-no so close to an immobile ally in the form of a wooden wall blocking a possible escape route. Out of my other two cantripped options, Mipha’s Grace is something I hope I never have to use, and Urbosa’s Fury gets its attention right quick.

Of course it has to be electrified. Its spawn are electrified, so why not mommy too? Saints and Sages. It charges a massive current with what I thought were useless wings and the few fine hairs that cover its thorax and abdomen, but the voltage is low. I’m probably capable of taking two, possibly even three seconds of full contact before fibrillation. Probably.

Fuck. Me.

Time to dance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~Happy Holidays~  
Please enjoy the NPC text quoted from LoZ:BotW if you approach Hestu while not wearing anything.


	6. Stumble and fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Link's having a rough day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: Moderate Gore, Physical Violence, Gun Violence, Racism  
Warnings: some gay stuff, lack of foul language, magical maracas filled with poo, bad battle descriptions that are bad, Hestu

He’s leading the big gross wasp thing away, towards the entrance to Chio’s Rest. Where he’ll be able to move better…where it will be able to move better. Getting it some distance away from me, away from Hestu. He’s distracting it, keeping it from attacking me while I can’t move. I still can’t, the high frequency droning tearing across my brain, making me shiver and cramp in turns as my eyes water and blur, my vision doubling and fracturing as my head feels like it’s going to explode. I want to puke, but can’t unclench my guts enough to do it. Goddess, it _hurts_.

But he can’t fight it alone. Not for long. He has no long ranged weapons, and his magic just pissed it off without doing any noticeable damage. He needs _help_. There’s no one else that even knows where we _are_. It’s just us, so I need to help him. I _need_ to.

There’s _no one_ else.

I can’t even stand on my own, the noise that the wasp monster is making specifically intended to drop anything sensitive enough to those specific Hertz frequencies…and it’s getting fainter. Fast.

The sounds of fighting aren’t. At least, the sound of its attacks aren’t. I can’t hear Sheik at all.

Goddess, please. Let me stand. Let me _go_. Let me get to him in time.

Staggering to my feet gives me just enough space to fall, narrowly missing both cutting myself on my sword and braining myself on the edge of my shield. When my own limbs are too heavy to move, the additional weight keeps me pinned. Panting. Furious with myself, and almost hysterical with dread that I won’t get there in time. That Sheik will die in the dirt a day away from home, helping me find Tetra – because I need her – when he would have been safer and more comfortable in the Manor. I can’t let that happen. I can’t.

I _can’t_.

The crisp crackle of the electrified wasp monster’s attacks stops along with my heart and somehow I find the strength to grip the hilt of my sword and jam the blade deep into the ground. From there, I can heave myself up into a semblance of standing. I don’t have the balance to take the blade with me, but moving…moving I can do. It’s just making sure my feet stay under me while I fall in the direction of that awful dissonant shrieking.

It’s not where I wanted to go, but it is where the noise is coming from. I wanted to get to Sheik’s side, need to help him fight the colossal wasp monster. Instead, from here, I can dispose of the dozen or so little baby monsters in their slimy yet fragile egg sacks. Even with them being the size of my thigh, with heads around the size of my fist, a rock works. There are lots of rocks. Cobbles, really, from the ancient people that built this place. I find one that fits in my hand quickly - one with a nice, solid base - and start bashing.

After the first, I learn to close my eyes against the spatter when I bring the rock down. Not that it lingers long on my skin, the infant insects inside each putrid sack turning to dust almost as soon as they die. And they die so easily compared to the adults. There will be no more of this kind of horror if I have anything to say about it.

I ignore the squealing of the baby monsters in their death throes. Ignore the screeching of mama monster fighting the delicate man I call my Sheik. Refrain from retching at the stench. Try to remember that he’s surprisingly strong, and incredibly smart, and one of the most talented mages I know. Hope that he’ll survive long enough for me to get there and _help him_.

Wish, desperately, that I could have stopped that woman from cursing him, just so I could be listening to him swear right now. If he’s swearing, he’s alive, and has at least some fight left in him to give. Instead, amid the wet sucking sounds of the rock in my fist moving through smushed baby monster innards, I hear the electrical crackling of the big monster, Hestu’s unintelligible babbling, and intermittent silence.

I’m not sure which I hate more.

Probably the silence. It’s too much like waiting.

Eventually I run out of egg sacks, and, like the Hinox, the monsters disappear in puffs of caustic black smoke, leaving behind very little to scavenge. More of the warm little amber drops, a few wings, a handful of stingers. I stuff them all in my pockets, and then attempt to stand on my own once again. Fall down, but only after I manage three unsteady steps.

Better.

Like mom always told me, it’s not how many times you fall, but how many times you get back up. I still keep count, even after I’m so covered in mud that I’m carrying as much dirt as I eat when I fail to remain upright. It takes me two falls to get to my sword and shield. Two more to put them on so I can carry them, even if I can’t use them. Five to get to the campsite. Only half of one to loop my quiver and bow for carrying. I catch myself, but it still counts.

Fifteen to get to the edge of Chio’s Rest, where I then kneel deliberately for a four point balance between my feet and my knees. Wonder if my vision will ever stabilize, or the hollow, echoing whine of tinnitus will fade. The twitching of my cheek from ear to nose will stop. Draw. Wait. Watch. Wait. Swallow the shout that will distract Sheik from the monster attacks putting him in mortal danger. Wait. I hate waiting.

The monster charges him, furrows on the ground marking its passage and giving me a way to count just how many times he’s dodged before I got here. Too many. It thrusts its electrified stinger into the air where he was only moments before – or maybe that’s my vision playing tricks on me - and he stabs upward into the quivering abdomen with his spear. Six tentacle-like arms bear the marks of previous strikes already, but – like the Hinox – it does not bleed.

Like the Hinox, I shoot it in the eye the moment I have a clean shot. Sheik rolls out of the way as it falls from the air, writhing, only to leap back and use his body weight to pin the monster’s thorax to the ground, and the shrieking that literally makes the bleeding in my ears start up again rends the air.

I might have screamed. I can’t tell. It just hurts. Until it doesn’t. Suddenly. Abruptly. Honeycombed harmonies in a major fifth block it out, and I know those chords. Sheik taught the kids how, cast it on the ones too unsteady to do it themselves, and inadvertently reminded everyone paying attention how to do it as well. I know how, had the time, and didn’t think of it. He had to. I should have done it myself and saved him the trouble. Not that it distracts him for long.

His magic soars into an ethereal descant before crashing to the earth alongside his fist, roaring outward in flames that tighten my skin and incandesce the wasp-monster in the time it takes for one slow breath. The one that comes after sees him slump against the shaft of his spear and cling to it as he shakes. Four objects fall. The first, heart-shaped and glittering, disappears before it hits the ground. The amber relic that falls chinks against the decaying cobblestone, then again when it rolls to rest against the dagger strapped to his thigh. The last two are our goal.

I shake, too. We may as well shake together.

I fall once more on my way to his side because of the ruts in the ground, and then again when I’m there, onto his chest, needing to touch him. Make sure he’s okay. That he’s alive. And I can’t, that Goddess damned curse keeping me from touching his skin, hearing his voice. He may as well be no more than a warm, twitching automaton, its battery-power run nearly dry.

“Sheik…” I moan, sinking my fingers into his wrapped hair and resting my forehead against his, listening to him breathe. His arms slide up mine to pull me down onto him fully, pressing us together from ankle to jaw, and he shudders. Buries his face in my shoulder. I shudder.

The ground shudders.

“Those…those are…those are my maracas!” Hestu chortles, and my stomach drops as he shifts to pick us up, forgetting again just how much smaller we are in comparison and how little energy we have after fighting monsters on an empty stomach. I cling to Sheik, who struggles to keep us steady by his grip on his spear as we’re lifted two, perhaps two and a half stories faster than any elevator I’ve ever ridden. I’m not about to jump over the edge and check how far it is for accuracy’s sake - though I think I could make it if I bounced off of the root to the right – and I grab for the large red maracas before they roll away.

They’re huge, and far too small for him to be able to use…but the bug monster took them for a reason. I make certain my grip on them is secure before crawling back over Sheik so I can use his spear – still embedded in between more of the cobbles – as a crutch, simply to stand. Offering the instruments that waft a…distinct aroma…and fairly hum with unfamiliar power to the Korok from whom my family name and the name of our holdings originated.

I have so many questions, and so little time.

Tetra is in danger. Less immediate than mine, but just as deadly.

I need to find her…but then I have _questions_.

“Shala-zah! Shala-ka! I can use my powers again! I’ve learned a few new tricks!” Hestu bounces, knocking me over for the thirty-second fall in half as many minutes. Maybe Sheik has the right idea, still flat against the ground and grasping at anything that gives a sense of stability. “So what will it be?”

“What…what all can you do?” If he can break Sheik’s curse, or somehow get the power-grid back up, that would be spectacular.

Too easy, but spectacular.

“With my maracas and the Korok seed you offered, I can expand your inventory! Axes! Shields! Swords! Knives! Bows! Spears! Carry one more with you for no extra effort, shalako!”

“Uh…” That’s…useful. I wasn’t expecting whatever he offered to actually work, and his confidence leaves me a little disconcerted. I already can carry more weaponry than I can actually use at any one time, but having something that works against electric insects would have been nice an hour ago. Given how many monsters we’ve stumbled across, I have to assume we’ll run into more of them, even if I destroyed this batch of eggs.

“Or maybe you want my new magic! I can give you a whistle that will summon your mount, no matter where you are!” He chirps, then moans. “But I only made one, and there are two of you, shalako. That isn’t fair.”

“We don’t have mounts, Hestu. We’re walking to Castletown. Can you help us with that?” His mannerisms remind me a lot of Talo, before he had a growth spurt last year and started acting like a little snot. If I treat him with the same kindness and simple questions, it’ll probably be easier on everyone.

“I don’t know where Castletown is…” He pouts. So much for that idea. “…and I cannot walk with you. Queen Zelda asked me to stay here and watch over you and your sprouts. I promised.”

“Promises are important.” I agree, and take the hand of one of mine. Tugging on Sheik’s arm, I get him to sit up enough to lean on me while he recovers from both intense physical activity and some fast and fancy casting. I don’t know enough to compare, but today was probably harder than what he had to do in the mall, and he’s recovering faster. That’s good. It means he’s healthier, and has more reserves to draw on. I have questions about that, too.

I can’t see his face, and he can’t speak on his own, and so I need to be careful not to accidentally force him to reveal anything he doesn’t want to by asking him things he doesn’t want to answer. I brush my lips over his knuckles to make sure I have his attention. “What would you like Hestu to do for you?”

“Spear.” He says firmly, nodding to confirm his decision.

“Shield for me.” Carrying a second shield at no extra weight means I have something Sheik can use for defense beyond his magic. Not that his spell casting is ineffective, but he can run out of energy to do it just like I can exhaust my stamina for physical combat. A sturdy, physical shield will keep him safe when that happens if I have to throw it on top of him and sit on it.

“Shala-zah! Shala-ka! Expand-a-band-band! Brrrrrahaha!” Hestu sings. And…dances. Complete with glitter explosions and sparkles at the end.

I’m not sure what I just witnessed, but it certainly was…something. Sheik would normally _definitely_ have words, whereas I can only gape.

“Da-na-na-na-naaaaaaaaa!”

I was right. Those maracas have some _freaking_ powerful magic, and the drop from where Hestu was holding us is manageable as long as I use his root system to control the plummet. Kind of fun, even, like a big slide. I don’t have to roll to absorb my impact with the ground, though a bit of quick stepping is required to both keep my balance and steady Sheik as he follows behind me a second after.

I don’t need to do it, he can manage fine on his own, but his waist feels good under my hand and his eyes tell me everything he can’t say. With a quick smile of reassurance, I resist the urge to kiss him by turning back towards the banked fire where I started the oatmeal soaking before heading to bed last night.

It hasn’t seriously suffered for the neglect, it’s just a bit thicker than either of us prefer, and I’m not a fan to begin with. Still, it’s nothing adding a bit more water to the makeshift pots doesn’t fix, and unlike our one cauldron, the nut shells don’t need to be cleaned out after. The mists of the morning creep quietly into camp as I finish scraping the last of breakfast from my shell, keeping an ear out for any trouble.

The Dark God seems to have amused Himself enough with us this morning though, and we don’t run into so much as a Deku-Scrub on the way to the highway that circles far south before heading back towards Korokshire. It’s an easier path, but an extra thirty kilometers, and despite all the trouble hauling Sheik through Korokshire’s wildlands was, it was still faster by more than a day due to simple distance. Especially if we’d had to fight monsters there, too…and we wouldn’t have met Hestu.

I’m not sure which side of the tally that last counts towards, only that I’m pleased to see the road on the expected day, if not the anticipated hour.

The demarcation between Korokshire, the publically owned highway, and one of Groose’s smallholder’s private farmland is blatant. Sheik balks half a second before I cross, so when I take that step and find the subtly screaming sky hasn’t changed from yesterday I immediately jump back to my family’s lands just to get away. It’s…as awful as I remember, the hair on the back of my neck rising and my skull feeling like someone is squeezing the base tighter and tighter and tighter.

I cross the threshold, back and forth, two more times before giving in. We have to go, so it’s no use putting it off.

“What is this?” I ask, leaving the question as open ended as I can to hopefully get more than a one or two word answer. I miss hearing his voice.

“The Champion’s Barrier was destroyed at the moment of the Resurgence. With the return of his maracas, Hestu restored a small portion of the whole, but these areas have yet to be cleansed. The remaining Champions may need aid in reestablishing their protections and cleansing the land of the Dark God’s servants and influence. That is the boundary of Korokshire’s protections.” He tells me, more words than I’ve heard out of him all day. Yes, they are without inflection, just a cold, hard series of statements, but they sound fantastic to me because they’re his. Sort of. His, filtered through the crooning woman’s censorship.

“Any chance of talking to Tetra today?” I ask, not just to find out, but also to keep him talking. It backfires as he shrugs, shaking his head, so I try a different question and press on through the boundary towards our next stop. “Alright, so how many of these Champions are there?”

“I don’t know.”

“Guess? And walk me through your reasoning.” That should keep him chattering for a while.

“Based purely on our encounter with the Great Korok Hestu and his implied relationship to both your family name and lands, I would hazard a guess at one Champion for each of the founding families after the Restoration during the Hero of Champions’ lifetime. As I have not studied the history of any family aside from the Royal Line, I cannot say how many that would account for, only that it is more than one.” My Sheik informs me, as though that fight was nothing and didn’t drain him to the point where he was turning grey this morning. He has some of his color back, but I’m still going to stop early enough for him to actually rest when we camp tonight.

I can also inadvertently answer my own question. Who would have ever thought that studying for a degree in Early Modern History would be good for something practical?

“Seven then, including mine. The Bolson family, the von Hestu family, the Agahnim family, and the Whittleton family all made significant contributions to the restoration of Castletown itself, as well as Hyrule proper. The Romani, Tingle, and the Aboda families aided in the restoration of the fields, farms, and forests. Though the other races helped, they mostly stuck to their traditional territories, sending aid but no more.” I tell him. “That means we’ll get to the Whittleton holdings first, in the old Mabe Prairie area, which is great because we’ll probably get to see Senza.”

Sheik hums, obviously not speaking, but definitely telling me he likes Senza and is willing to help her out. She’s worth helping, even if it wasn’t on the way to rescue Tetra. I’m not sure how I feel about the Bolsons, though I know Pipit was supposed to be part of Eran’s entourage and is a Knight of Skyloft Academy. I just don’t have enough information to make a judgement call there, but as a fellow Knight, he can’t be that bad. Romani Ranch and the Lonlon Nature Preserve are awfully far, as are the Tingle holdings, and I don’t even know if the Aboda family still has any claim to a territory, or if it’s been pieced out to all the children too many times to identify a direct line. Niko’s got ninety-eight first cousins.

It’s going to be a struggle to help the Agahnims, for both of us.

“I don’t know much about the Bolsons, but the Agahnims are...unpleasant.” I grimace, and he snorts his opinion of my understatement. He’s gone pale again though, and his heart’s sped up, so I know how he really feels. With how much joy I find in dealing with their heir, I can’t imagine the rest of the family is any better, though the same could be said of mine via my father. I don’t actually want to know what the monsters there will be like, even as part of me looks forward to the challenge.

The Deku-Babas weren’t difficult to defeat at all. Not after the first two. They were barely more effort than hitting the pells…and much simpler to deal with than anything that comes from Mallar’s misanthropic perspective.

“I know, I know. But just because their overlord is a jerk doesn’t mean the people that live in Elma Knolls should suffer for it. Suffer more for it.” I correct myself. Sheik huffs, but calms, accepting my determination better than I thought he would, or understanding what I mean. Probably understanding. He’s suffered enough at Mallar’s hands without being beholden to him as well.

Instead, he’s my slave, can’t refuse an order, and is unable to even _speak_ without being prompted.

Suddenly I don’t really feel like talking about treating people poorly any more, and go quiet, keeping my mouth closed and my eyes on the road. It seems to go on forever when you’re walking instead of driving, though Sheik doesn’t seem to need as much rest as I thought he would. Instead, I’m the one to flag first, my pace slowing down compared to his until the thought of being able to stop walking is all that keeps me going.

I’ve driven down this road thousands of times, and been driven down it twice as many, and once we crest the next in a seemingly endless series of small hills, we can see the family farm that I was hoping for. Even if they have no extra beds, unrolling our sleeping bags on a living room floor is still better than doing it on the ground or in the tent. It’d be nice to talk to someone, too, that isn’t a tree and can talk back without deliberate, continual prompting.

Plus, they have a natural gas tank, which means even if it’s just space on the floor, it’ll be _heated_ space on the floor, and probably a stove top to cook on as well. Spending the night would mean two meals that I don’t have to hover over. I’m not _bad _at camp cooking, but I’m not great. Not practiced. Maybe someone there is. That hope lets me pick up the pace, turning back to smile at Sheik as I hear the soothing strains of his magic reinforcing my Nayru’s Love before strengthening his own and following.

Three vehicles sit in the yard, and there’s a double detached garage as well as two A.T.V.s under rain covers, so someone must be home. I don’t see any lights on inside, but that’s not surprising. It’s early enough in the evening that if the electrical grid is somehow miraculously back in working order, lights aren’t really needed as long as your windows are big enough. All the curtains are drawn as I approach the front door, and I can’t hear any ringing inside when I press the doorbell, so I knock as hard as I can.

“Get off my property you filthy spooks!” A querulous old man hollers from the west side of the house, making me look directly into the setting sun a moment before a thunderous cracking report renders me temporarily deaf as well as blind. I clutch on the railing to keep my balance, the sound aching in a way that it wouldn’t have before what Sheik called a Bloat decided to take a crack at crushing my eardrums earlier today.

“What did you do?!” As the high pitched whine fades, some of what is being said becomes intelligible, though all I can see is Sheik’s honeycombed magic pulsing brightly, his back framed by warm orange sun beams.

“Them darn spooks is tryin’ ta steal my cars!”

“Dad, no!”

“Stop it!”

“That’s Lord Korokshire, Dad!”

“That’s a damn spook!”

“And Lord Korokshire!” A familiar voice shouts, irate, and mostly hiding the scared. I put my hand on Sheik’s shoulder. It tenses, but doesn’t move. Neither does he, forcing me to duck around his side and down the three steps of the small porch to figure out what’s going on. I can’t help digging a finger into my ear to try and get it to pop, and walk slowly towards the old man, two younger men, and young woman, uncertain of my balance with my ears all messed up and the ground tilting beneath my feet.

Sheik’s hand yanks me to a stop before I’ve taken more than five steps, and he turns his back on them to shove at my chest, shaking his head.

“I’ve got it, Sheik.” I reassure him, and turn away from the fearful look in his eyes before I give in to it and comfort him. It would comfort me, too, but would definitely be seen as a sign of weakness. Weakness that I wouldn’t have hesitated to show just moments before, confident that any reasonable person would offer help if I asked. If it was needed. Now, I’m not so sure. The trembling in my knees isn’t just from overuse, either.

“Lord Korokshire.” Tarrey says, bowing as best he can while holding both hands on the man who I assume is his father, keeping him from raising a strange looking stick. It’s like no wand I’ve seen, but is definitely what made the noise that keeps my ears ringing. It’s vaguely familiar though, so I’ve seen something like it before.

“Mr. Towne, thank you for your assistance the other day. Did the payment process alright?” My positive identification of the man as well as innocuous question knocks the tension down enough that he can take the stick from the older man, and the other young man relaxes his hold.

“Just fine, your Grace, thank you. Is your…uh…Sheik is it?...okay? I mean, the thunderbuss has no real accuracy to speak of, and dad’s hands are shaky, but accidents happen.”

“Is that what that’s called?” I ask, wondering.

“Yeah. It’s…it’s a recreation, really. A smaller version of the historical one. Meant for people without magic to use for warning off the birds from the fields, since it doesn’t shoot as accurate as arrows and wands are better in general. I was hoping for something that made that a little easier, not…not to make something for shooting _people_, _dad_.” Tarrey scolds.

Kaya.

“That’s a spook, boy! Them’s the demons what brought the Calamity afore, now they done it again, and I ain’t sufferin’ one ta live!” The old man snarls, and despite the thrumming vibrato of his magic keeping us both shielded, I can hear Sheik’s derisive sniff.

“Dad!” The other son protests.

“Not one!” He roars.

“Your hospitality in our time of need will not be forgotten.” I bow, and turn sharply on my heel, ignoring Tarrey and his brother’s protests. If I were Groose, I’d…

If I were Groose, I’d probably ask for the best bed and send Sheik on with the tent to sleep off the property, then catch up in the morning after eating the family out of house and home.

Kaya isn’t visibly injured, and needs no more than a wave of my hand to walk away. I keep my body between him and the small holder until we’re over the next two hills. He won’t shoot _me_ in the back, and he’s willing to shoot Kaya in the face. Would have, if I wasn’t there, and Tarrey hadn’t taken his…thunderbuss. A miniature cannon. That’s what it reminds me of. Small enough to hold in your hands.

Aimed at my Sheik.

Rage gives me strength, but it also takes away reason, fueling my pace along the highway towards Castletown. Burning bright and hot and fast until it burns itself out, and by then it’s too dark to go far from the road. I only notice once I’m having trouble seeing where I’m going enough to even follow the road, and stop. My feet throb all the way up to my knees. Kaya walks into my back, utterly exhausted, and hungry. I can hear his stomach growling. Mine is too.

“Sorry.” I apologize. We should have stopped long ago, and I haven’t fed him anything since we left the woods. Telma would scold me and Tetra would take my hide off in one piece if either of them knew. I’m supposed to take care of him, teaching him how to take care of himself as we go. Instead, he stood between me and an incensed old man with a weapon and the will to use it while I was oblivious to the danger.

He sighs, and I feel his hand on my cheek before his lips press against mine. I can’t see his face – it’s too dark – but I can meet and match him through that contact, and put my guilt and pride into the kiss even as I put my tongue in his mouth. His opens to me, offering, and I can’t say no.

Neither can he, just like the last time we shared a bed rather than a tent. I remember the black, scrolling, incomprehensible text that covered his skin, the red glow of his eyes as he cast…or tried to. Fighting the curse? Maybe. He _can’t_ say no. That means no. I know that much, it’s just really, really hard for my brain to convince the rest of me.

He initiated the kiss though, so that much is okay.

I kiss him, or he kisses me, until my stomach complains that my mouth is working but nothing is getting past it, and I breathe in his laughter. Then his stomach echoes mine, and I laugh, too.

“The Sages have spoken.” I chuckle, and feel him squeeze my arms before he calls forth the small, violet light that kept us company in the bottom of the elevator shaft. It’s enough for me to set up the tent on the edge of a field and find the trail mix packages, pulling out four of them.

We eat dried fruit and nuts and small chocolate bits under the stars, and slowly my eyes adjust enough that – with the faint glow of his spellcasting – I can see the vague outlines and shapes of the tent, the road, the surrounding hills, and my companion. I hope, wherever she is, that Tetra is as safe and comfortable as I am in this moment, or more so, and finish the last handful of my second bag of mix before stripping off my gear and shoving it into the tent ahead of me.

Sheik’s gear follows, but he doesn’t. He pats my leg though, and deliberately makes enough noise that I know he’s taking first watch. That means I get second, and should obey my body’s insistence that it’s time to sleep. It is not long in coming, and neither are dreams of better times with my important people at my side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Uh. The next chapter may be a few days late as I'm scheduled for 30 hours of overtime in the next two weeks and we've been running at 40% staff so that's likely to increase. If my brain can handle the edits, you'll get chapter seven on time, but that's only if my brain can handle the edits...  
Thanks for your patience, hopefully you won't need it. o7
> 
> Ten


	7. Reparation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sheik is an anxiety baby and has valid reasons for it, really. Not being able to speak isn't helping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Racism. Some classism.  
Warnings: Uh, angst? Language. Also angst. Sarcasm, metaphors. Possible angst. Bad scuffle descriptions that are bad.

I forgot how beautiful the stars could be, in their myriad colors sprinkled across the sky like wildflowers in a field. Not that I really knew what wildflowers in a field looked like until I got to see them regularly thanks to a certain Lord Spoon. There weren’t many occasions to take in a pastoral landscape in the heart of Hyrule’s oldest city, and I wasn’t exactly paying attention anywhere else.

Too focused on what was in front of me, too frightened of a single misstep. A choice between endless roads to follow that all lead to the same place, or stepping out of my place and earning the endless hate of strangers. Of course I didn’t look to the horizon, and there were fewer opportunities to see that than I had to see the stars, even with the light pollution obscuring the view. Not that I dared to glance at them, either. I didn’t exactly have many occasions to lift my head and look up.

Now I do.

They twinkle in seafoam and sienna and cyan and gold. I could stare at them for hours, to imprint their image on my mind like Hestu’s bark imprinted on my ass. It feels like I’ll be pulling splinters out for days, even though I know nothing broke the skin. Nothing even really bruised, much.

If I had more of an ass – or more energy for restorative spells – there wouldn’t be any bruising at all. If we keep walking this much – and my _domine_ keeps feeding me every time I open my mouth – that might even happen. The exercise leaves me sore, though, compounding the bruising that I dare not have him check on. That ache’s not the only reason I’ve lain down in the field itself instead of sitting or standing, but it plays a significant part.

The bugs are no worse here than they were in my mattress in the dorms before I baked them dead between the layers of stains and foam.

At least I’m not digging out an arrowhead, or worse, shrapnel. The last thing I need is an oozing, festering, open sore as we trapeze across the country-side like the Resurgence of the Calamity is a fucking walk in the park. It’s the _fucking_ Calamity. I…_we_…have been warning people for years. People older than me, stronger than me, more powerful than me, as well as those weaker, younger, and worse off than me. Including me. No one listened. Then…then…

Then I get shot at just for existing, for doing my _job,_ and my entire people blamed for something we have literally no control over. Because that’s logical.

Fucking Hylians.

Not all of them, sure, but enough. Enough.

Breathe, Kaya. In for a count of four. Hold for a count of four. Exhale. Hold. In. Hold. Out. Hold. Don’t you fucking dare wake Link. He needs the rest more than you need to point out the injustice of it all. He knows. He was there, this time, and that’s what saved you from getting an involuntary extra hole or six. Shut the fuck up. Breathe. Think, Din damn it. Remember your lessons. You’re going to need them like tequila needs lime.

It’s simple, really. Just need to recall and entire library of information that you learned a decade or more ago, to the smallest detail, without any source materials or triggering circumstances. Not that I need more triggers.

Fuck do I miss books. It’s barely been two days, and I already ache for just the activity of reading. The feel of a book in hand, the smell of print and paper, the exercise of turning those tiny marks into words, meaning, knowledge. Saints and Sages, if nothing else, I want to read for the entertainment value. I’d even read _The Seven Sages: Path of a Hero _backwards and not complain about the poetic meter or the trite, impossible romance, hypocritical as it is of me to do so. There’s enough tragedy in the world without glorifying the horrors of Twilight Era politics.

Even if the literary imagery and social reference point can be useful, sometimes.

I’d rather be star-covered than star-crossed, personally, and turn my gaze skyward to contemplate the thin sliver of reflected solar emanations illuminating the face of the moon. The miasma of Malice marking the Calamity covers the land, somewhere between the troposphere and the stratosphere, bathing the while sky a ravenous red. I’m getting used to it already, even when that’s what should be sending me into a gibbering anxiety attack, not an encounter that’s over and done with hours ago.

I’m still hungry. Between the walking and the fighting and the casting and the adrenaline spike of being fucking shot at by a bigoted stranger, I’m burning more calories than I’ve taken in. I know Link has rationed enough to get us to Castletown, and that the trail mix _should_ hold me to breakfast. My stomach and my brain disagree. Their argument makes it difficult for me to try and remember all of the Remnants and Corruptions that roamed the plains and fields of Central Hyrule during the last Resurgence.

Lonni Strongjaw of South Akkala made a list during Hyrule’s last Calamity, and Symin Ferrotype provided pictures to accompany that list. It takes me more focus to go through it chronologically than it does alphabetically, and so to distract myself, I start listing them in the order that the last Hero encountered them upon his awakening. Regardless, I get to begin with Bokoblins, but after that it gets a bit more challenging. I’ve made it to Stone-Pebblits by the time my turn at watch is over, which of course means I get to dream of them once Link is up and moving.

It’s better than most of my dreams, at least. I don’t wake even once in a cold sweat, with a racing heart, or choking on my own screams despite sleeping alone, in an unfamiliar place, and with minimal wards. Probably because I know, deep in the core of _knowing_, that should our sad little camp be attacked, Link would be all over it like hair on soap.

Farore, what I wouldn’t give for soap.

With no bath in sight on the horizon of possibility, at least my _domine_ has made breakfast. It’s not bad to wake up after a night’s rest to the scent of already prepared food and that handsome smile. _That_ still needs some getting used to. This tent’s smaller than the hatch of his Epona, though, and if I’m not going to let him park the beef bus down the back road there I shouldn’t be tempted to do it here.

Even if he inspires approximately twenty-two and three-quarter boners with the beginnings of a beard to scrape against the _hudtar_ covering my face as he wakes me. In full daylight. The irredeemable fuckwit.

He let me sleep in. I’m not going to encourage that kind of coddling, even if I appreciate it more than words can say. Not that I can say anything, either.

Murder Veran…breakfast first. Actually, I need to leave a deposit in what I hope is the old man’s field first, and startle a family of rabbits when I do. Link must have done the same, but is a much better shot. That explains why breakfast smelled good.

Poor, stupid bunny. Your sacrifice will not be wasted, even if my master looks at me strangely for leaving a small cairn over your bones built of roadside rubble. He doesn’t ask for an explanation, but it’s not because he doesn’t understand. He takes care of my share of the camp chores while I build it, instead. He even watches over me while I pray, and ensure there’s no chance of a Stalbunny coming after us seeking vengeance.

That means he gets to talk to the weapons vendor from the mall and his lard gargling turd-rag relatives as they crest the last hill on a pair of bicycles and an adult tricycle. I’m busy, and have no desire to be in range if they’re coming to finish what daddy dearest couldn’t manage. To that end, with the Witchfinder further away than soap, I don’t even bother with my converter, and draw the shadows around me directly.

Link will be fine, but he’ll be better without me there to fuck things up for him just by existing.

“Ho, camp!” The purveyor of all things sharp, pointy, explosive, and smashing calls out once he’s in range for conversation, reminding me that sound travels slower than light. That’s why some people can appear intelligent until they open their mouths and speak.

“Where’s your little haunt, Lord Korokshire? Lose him already?” The older of the two men asks, making Link frown. “So much for spook loyalty.” He sniggers. Point for me, though my master’s irritation with the insignificant slur may mean he gets the point of a sword in his guts before I can count coup.

“I’m sorry, Lord Korokshire. He was dropped on his head as a child.” The young woman says, smacking her brother hard on the arm. “Goddess, Fryson.”

“Please excuse my siblings, Lord Korokshire. They’re idiots, and think they’re funny.” The vendor from the mall sighs, bowing low and restoring some of Link’s good graces. “My mum sends her apologies for my dad’s behavior last night, and provisions, since we could not offer hospitality.”

“We accept your provisions, but I cannot in good conscience accept your apology. Only my Sheik can, for he is the one wronged by your father’s misplaced hostility.” Link sniffs, playing the noble prig for all he’s worth. I’d enjoy the siblings’ embarrassment more if he wasn’t looking right at me despite my concealing spellwork. If I pull any harder on my _saithr_ strings, it’ll turn into a full Blind, and that lingers in the aether like a wet fart in an elevator. Enough that the Witchfinder Extraordinaire would be able to tell even three days from now when we get to Castletown…if she catches me.

With my luck, she’ll be waiting with a court-date on the very edge of the city, and even Link’s wallet couldn’t bail me out of that kind of trouble. I _know_ he wants me to show myself, but unless he orders me to, it’s not happening. No, sir. Nuh-uh.

I’m shaking too hard to pretend the kind of calm, civil, cool reception required…and you don’t show them your fear. Not without getting more of the same shit that caused it in the first place. I have enough, thanks.

“My dad is a small-minded xenophobe, Lord Korokshire. One that gives every stereotype about provincial people some small element of truth.” The vendor snorts. “I moved to the city to get away, since I can’t change his mind. You know how many Sheikah thieves I’ve seen in the mall since then?”

“No.” Link has relaxed, though it’s nearly imperceptible to most people. I can only tell because I’m paying close attention and I’m his fucking Sheik. It’s my Din damned _job_.

“If you don’t count the dumpster divers behind the food court trash bins, one. In eleven years of working a little more than full-time. It’s mostly middle-class teenagers and old women, but Hylia knows I can’t convince my dad of that. He’s too old and stubborn to even consider he might be wrong about something.” The vendor snarls, personal frustration oozing out of him like pimples out of a teenager after a savage beating with the puberty bat. He recovers quickly once he realizes it, years of customer service giving him practice at hiding his true feelings. “Anyway, mum felt bad about the hospitality, and Fryson and Hunnie here agreed with me, so here we are. Take your pick of any of the bikes, pick one for your Sheikah friend, and we’ll load everything onto them. They’re yours.”

“Mr. Towne, that’s too much.” Link refuses, and I want to smack him badly enough that it might even be worth exposing myself. As soon as I learn how to ride one, a bicycle would cut days off our journey. _Days_.

“Tarrey, please. Give my regards to her Grace, the Lady Whittleton, when you next meet, and I will be in your debt.” So that’s the way he rolls, the poor bastard. Not that Senza’s a bad choice to pursue, but a retail worker hasn’t a chance to even _try_ courting a Duchess. _The Seven Sages: Path of Hero _and similar romantic tripe in the public lexicon is probably the reason he even thinks he has half of the chance of one-ply in that particular shit storm.

“As a matter of fact, we’re on the way there right now.” Link perks up like my nipples in a cold breeze. Oh, no fucking way. He wouldn’t. “Would you care to join us? I can’t imagine going back would be very pleasant.” He does, the utter spoon. The Fierce Deity must absolutely fucking _hate_ me.

“I’m a man of honor, Lord Korokshire.” Tarrey states, spine straightening, turning from daffodil deferential to a firm fern green in a breath.

“Link, please.”

“Link. I promised mum I’d be there for her birthday, and a little Calamity isn’t going to stop me from keeping that promise.” Tarrey insists.

“We all did. There should be some cake in there because of it.” Hunnie pipes in, waving at the basket on the back of her bike.

“We’ll follow along eventually, electricity or no.” Fryson nods. “If you get rid of the road monsters, you’ll have my thanks.”

“I brought some things to help with that.” Tarrey adds, and goes to his bags.

“I saw you and your…_friend_ each had a quiver, so there are some bomb arrows, and a handful of shock arrows too. As many as I could make before we had to go.” Fryson turns to his packs. With all three of them focused on other things and not intending to turn my hide into a rug to trample on, I let the Shadows free and move to stand by Link’s side. Behind him still, because I’m not _that_ stupidly trusting, but fuck if I’ve ever ridden a bike before. The tricycle seems easier to balance, especially with the kind of load we’ll be carrying, so if I get any say in the matter, I want that one.

With the fate of the world at stake, I have no qualms in demanding the best available tools for the job. Including my master. Aside from being one of the best swordsman I’ve ever seen and a decently adept archer, he’s the biggest spoon available, and I want him. I do. Even if he never touches me or talks to me again. The Fierce Deity could fuck me sideways and I’d thank Him for the privilege if it meant Link stays the same noble, kind, and courageous twit I first met behind the bus mall.

Where the Fierce Deity wanders, Majora isn’t far behind. The amount of satisfaction I get from startling the siblings to the point where Hunnie shrieks and Fryson drops his quiver can’t be conventionally measured, but it’s damn entertaining. Almost as good as a book. Tarrey doesn’t seem to think so, but Link approves. He tells me so by reaching back to squeeze my hand where they can’t see, and I smile behind my cowl. Since he can’t see that either, I squeeze his hand back, which makes him fucking glow.

“Goddess!” Fryson yelps. “Do you live in his shadow?”

“Yes.” My answer frightens him even more, and I can’t help but chuckle. Let him wonder if I meant it literally or metaphorically. Either works, but the first option suits his fear better. You can’t be raised by a racist and not have some skew in your perspective. I shouldn’t enjoy it as much as I do, and add it to the list of things I should actually, legitimately be punished for when this is all over.

Maybe I just want a spanking.

Maybe I’m sick of being the one cowering like a dog kicked one too many times.

Maybe both.

Their sudden caution lets Link select a second shield from the three Tarrey managed to pack – this one a round shield instead of the anachronistically named heater shield style he already carries – and I find two more daggers that suit me and have a sheath for the small of my back, since there are no polearms of any kind. Trading my quiver of arrows for the one of shock arrows adds no extra weight to what I’m expected to carry - for which I’m thankful - though Link takes the one of bomb arrows and five individual ice arrows in addition to his full quiver.

He’s not carrying as many rations now that we’ve eaten them, and we have transportation that can bear more weight than our feet alone, but the fresh food more than doubles our original ration weight. He was so obsessively concerned about it when we left that his casual acceptance of it now confuses the ever living fuck out of me.

Of course, I get to wait and fret patiently instead of saying anything about it. Huzzah.

The second I try the tricycle though, I understand. Leaving the siblings to walk the one bike with their rejected offerings back to Hagie and Ruli’s farm, Link offers advice and instruction and I get to add a riding skill that doesn’t involve cock to my curriculum vitae. Once I get the hang of it, using the trike is much faster than walking and something that I could consider fun. If we had the leisure to do this at a calmer pace and I wasn’t slowing him down, I’d like it even more. It’s like running, but there’s a glide that requires no effort and makes me wonder if this is something like flying.

Forget the Fierce Deity, by the time we stop for the evening my thighs hate me enough that Link has to bodily lift me from the tricycle, leaning me against our packs as he sets up camp and starts supper. I can light the fire and stir the pot, but my leg muscles consist of gelatin and refuse to support my weight any longer. My ass aches worse than that. The less said about my blisters, the better, though in the low light that means I get to pop, drain, and bandage both his and my own, soothing the broken and irritated skin with a faint touch and two basic healing Runes.

Castletown is dark, but completely visible in the distance. It stays dark as the sun sets - aside from the occasional flicker of controlled fires - and I shroud our campsite in as many shadows and wards as I can. We were able to outdistance most of the monsters today, including Stone-Pebblits and Bokoblins both, but now that we’re stationary and vulnerable and my legs don’t want to work, we need the extra protection. The blue Bokoblin that gave chase meant business, and I’d rather not have that kind of company.

I bet Hagie felt the same way about me.

I don’t intend to let anything get close enough to say that I missed, though, and use the butt of my spear for balance so I can stand and hobble despite my thighs telling me to sit the fuck down and stop it. I ignore them, ignore the pain, and manage to stumble around the campsite enough to etch the appropriate Runes in the dirt, activate them, and then show them to Link for when it’s his turn to take over. It’ll be his own damn fault if he crosses them or scuffs them out. I’m beat, and have enough experience with both exhaustion and violence to know when they’re comparable sensations.

Leaving my_ domine_ to watch the stars, I literally fall into the tent, take the time to set a passive repair spell on my legs from the hips down, and sleep. Fully expecting to nightmare, my only disappointment is that it’s not the one I anticipated. With just a little more information, I might be able to find Grant’s murder site, instead of just where the two men dumped his body afterwards. Or either of their faces.

Like with Paya – or at least what was left of her – no such luck.

Instead, in my dreams I’m seventeen again, reviewing my national test score ranking in the cafeteria and praying that it’ll be enough to get me out. It will, of course, but I don’t know that and it’s not soon enough. Not to stop them. Not to keep it from happening.

I remember bits and pieces of it when I’m awake, but nothing coherent and never more than a second or two. Absolutely nothing of it now beyond momentary flashes that remain clear to this day, but there’s a better chance that I’ll be crushed to death by a vending machine than I’ll be able to sleep again tonight.

I can still feel the chain-link fence freezing to my bloody back, and the cold blank despair knowing that no one is coming, no one will catch them, no one cares. Not Sir Dorian, not Grand Master Impa, not even Janitor Rusl or Groundskeeper Barnes. Not Principal Baromu. Definitely not my teachers, they’re the ones that would have sicced this particular pack on me in the first place. Not even the stars, cold and beautiful and so distant I can’t touch their warmth. No one. Not even me.

There are only so many scholarships available, after all. Why should the loner, outcast, violet spook get one? It’d just be a waste of a perfectly good opportunity for someone who could actually do something with their life.

Goddesses, Kaya, you know better. Do better. Be better than they expect. Make them eat it, without sauce, and hope that they choke on their own frothing rage. Years and kilometers lie between then and now. You did it.

I choke on other things, as silent as the dead, and pray. Eventually.

Dawn is warming the horizon when I unzip the tent and stick my head out, having checked and banished any traitorous moisture from my face before even thinking about it. Link pats the ground at his side in welcome, watching as two red Bokoblins fight over the stale remains of my piece of birthday cake on the other side of my wards. I wouldn’t have eaten it anyway. It was too sweet.

So is he. I don’t get to hope to have him, either.

“Want to talk about it?” He asks, leaving the question open for me to interpret however the fuck I want. How he knows – _what _he knows - I haven’t the foggiest. I can’t have cried out, Veran’s curse ensuring that much. I’m still going to murder her at the first given opportunity, but it might not take as long as I initially envisioned. Only two or three days maybe, instead of the full week I was planning. 

“Not right now.” Like eating corn too quickly, it’ll all come out eventually, and be mostly recognizable when it does. There are more important things to deal with at the moment than my persistent failure to not give a fuck…like Bokoblins. The victorious one gloats and the loser slinks off. Link’s arrow catches the first in the throat. While the second raids the remains not only of the now nearly indiscernible lump of what used to be cake, but its talismans and weaponry as well, he looses another arrow that flies straight and true.

Then he tosses a lump of rehydrated strawberry next to the mutilated cake, and sits back down. The bodies puff into dust, and I wish I could do the same if only to avoid his kindly concern.

“There were nine of them at first. Down to three.” He murmurs. With the extra food and the better transportation, baiting them like this is a good use of resources, and will save us hours of time and possibly serious injury to boot. I sigh, and settle in to wait for his trap to work. It doesn’t take long, but one is the blue Bokoblin, and it is both smarter and tougher than its duller counterparts. It still dies beneath my spear, disappearing in a puff of black ashen malevolence, but the scuffle has taken three of the ice arrows, two shock arrows, and consumed both my wards and Link’s protections.

I thump him – gently – on his shoulder, but only after I finish panting and yelling at him in my head, sounding far more organized there than I actually am. That last stunt he pulled was riskier than the rhythm method. I don’t care that it worked, there’s only one of him. He’s the fucking Hero. He can’t die to something uglier than my nightmares before we even reach Castletown. Fuck it if I die – which I will, guaranteed – but he fucking _can’t._ Not until Princess Hilda uses the Royal Relic and seals the Calamity for the next however many hundred years.

“Hey now, what’d I do to deserve that?” He pouts. Good shit. That look should be illegal, or at least come with a warning to hide your daughters, wives, and goats.

“You stood in front of a charging Bokoblin and waited for it to close with you instead of staying a reasonable distance away.” I may not be able to say exactly what I think of that brilliant idea, but I can raise an eyebrow and give him my very best ‘you half-animated shithead’ look.

Apparently I need more practice, because he interprets it to think that I was worried about him. And I was, but that’s not all. If he fails…

He won’t. Not if I have to knock him over and sit on him to keep him from running headlong into danger without _thinking_ first. He’s lucky he’s so handsome. Gorgeous. Perfect.

Shit, Kaya, you’re fucking hopeless. Stop staring and get to work. No one’s going to thank you for being the dead-weight that dragged the Hero down.

Turning my back on him as abruptly as I can while my legs have solidified into something with as many bones as canned lunch meat, I take over the oatmeal tending – since he made something that only vaguely resembled it yesterday – while he takes care of the tent and sleeping bags. Fair deal. Just like it’s a fair deal not to wander out of sight of the camp when I can’t holler and he can’t see well through the sprouting crops and there are Bokoblins about. We even have a collection of their horns, fangs, and guts to prove it.

I really could have done without saving the still pulsating guts, but neither of us know what else to do with them...do they poison the land like Vengas, regrow into full Bokoblins like Chu-chus, or can they be made into stew? I know about three quarters of fuck all, and Link even less. It’s not worth the risk, so they come with us. We load up the bicycle and tricycle, I apologize to my ass and thighs, and together we ride the last few kilometers to the boundary markers of Castletown.

The Mabe Prairie Road Welcome Center has toilets and pay-to-play showers, and I’d never thought I’d be as happy to see either of those things as I am. The water’s cold as a Yeti’s tit, but there’s towels, a locking door, and – blessed holy halleluiah – soap. Cheap, fake, neon pink, fake floral-scented soft soap in pumps that have seen more hands than mall door handles ever will, but soap. Link takes care of what needs taking care of and buggers off to talk to the couple who’ve been stranded here since Sunsday.

I lock the door with ill-concealed glee and strip to the skin, short out the vending mechanism, and turn on the water. A handful of soap has me lathering until I’m whiter than milk and happier than a pig in shit for it. I don’t dare wash my hair with that goo, but everything else…that gets scrubbed. Everything. My blisters burn like the noonday sun on the summer solstice in the middle of the Wastelands, and I don’t even care. They’re clean, and that’s glorious. Damp, shivering from my rinse, and refreshed, I’m in a good enough mood that I’m even willing to get back to where I belong at Link’s side and do the people thing.

Neither of the people comprising the people thing have replica antique weapons pointed at me, or weapons of any sort, which helps. The old Human is a highly skilled mage, but with so little power left he can barely light a candle without planning for it. I listen as he explains the miniscule works he’s laid over the entire Center over the years he’s been here, and take mental notes as we go.

Link and well-seasoned Gerudo lady pour over maps as he takes me outside.

“Quiet one, aren’t ya?” He comments, apparently having more courage away from the noble with a sword and bag full of Bokoblin bits proving he knows how to use it. “Bet you don’t miss much, eh?”

“I try not to.” Which is true enough. I can’t see everything, and I can’t process everything I see as completely as it may deserve, but I do try my best. It’s all I can do.

“Then maybe you can tell me about something I found, oh, three, four years ago? Take a look see?” He pleads, all lemony excitement and coral interest. I could crush him like a bug, or check out whatever it is while Link plans the next step of our journey and _not_ be bored to tears. It’s not a difficult choice. “I started giving it little boosts to see what it does, but so far nothing has happened.” He admits, and starts off towards the surrounding, ungroomed landscape of the Center.

Matching his doddering pace gets my blisters complaining, but he knows the history of the area as well or better than any of the pamphlets the Welcome Center provides. I don’t mind listening as we go, or helping him scale the odd outcropping two minutes away. It takes us nearly ten to get there at his shuffling mosey, but takes me less than one to run back to the Center once he clears the faintly glowing and sparking surface of dust and dirt.

The door barely slows me down, and I use the topography table the Gerudo woman is pointing at to stop my headlong dash. Grab Link’s arm. Tug, hard enough to pop some of the stitches of his sleeve.

“What is it?” He asks. “Sheik! What?”

“Guardian Stalker.” That cornflower blue light means the core is still functional. “Active.” It _should_ still recognize the commands that were programmed in hundreds of years ago, but if it doesn’t, someone needs to stop it. It’s functional, thanks to Mister Naïveté, so it’s only a matter of time until it executes its directive.

I’m the only Sheikah here. Yeah, Link’s the Hero, but the last one didn’t fare so well against the tools that _my people_ built. And yeah, we _fixed_ that, sort of, at a cost that the Hero of Champions should never have had to pay. So I need to be the first thing it processes. Depending on how much is functioning, I could wind up with a handful of bits and some blue fire, or a fully armed death machine indiscriminately seeking targets. Depending on when it was shut down, I’ll either be its new director, or as dead as the last Hero. Having the current one standing guard while I try seems prudent.

I have to be the one to try. If it discharges or attacks, I’m expendable. My death will buy him five full seconds, no matter which one of us it hits. 

We run, an old Gerudo lady on our heels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I kind of made it? Only like, 12 hours late posting this, but technically the same day as my normal updates?  
As always, thanks for reading and I applaud your ability to withstand the copious amounts of angst this fic throws at you!


	8. Thwarted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Link: has had his whole world turned upside down, is deeply connected to his Sheik in a way that manifests on an emotional level according to their personalities, misses his best friend horribly, and can't really do anything about it aside from have some anger management issues.  
Those issues don't help him think clearly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: I think we're good? If not, gimmie a shout and I'll fix it.  
Warnings: Angst, anger, circular thoughts, your-privilege-is-showing.

As frantic as Sheik was crashing into the Welcome Center – distracting me from Spera’s recommendations and figuring out how best to get to the Whittleton Manor without a car – what he has to show me is nothing more than an anti-climatic little fizzle of discharge and a cascade of dirt over some old machinery. He’s been off ever since we left home, and not for the first time, I wonder if I shouldn’t have taken Kahti instead, even though he can’t do the things I need him to. He can still see better at night than I can, and that’s pretty much all Sheik’s been good for.

But I don’t trust him, and I do trust Sheik…and Tetra, Malon, and Senza like Sheik, though he makes Niko uncomfortable. That could simply be because of how very obviously sexual our relationship became, very quickly, and Niko’s aversion to anything of the sort. Most of my friends have reserved judgement until they get to know him a little better – which will take forever now – but of the ones that _do_ know something, he’s at seventy-five percent. That’s a solid C, so there’s some room for improvement.

“That’s it?” I ask, speaking before I can censure myself, my tone disgusted and exhausted and not _inaccurate_…but not the one I wanted to use. Spitting my words out before I can truly taste them. I meant it though, and he knows it, recoiling from me as though I’ve slapped him. Damn it. I don’t want to fight with him, but this earache has spread through my entire head and is making it hard for me to be polite.

“For the moment.” His reply is as inane as any apology I make would be, and he turns back to the faintly glowing barrel before I can even try, anyway.

“Let’s head back.” Spera winks, ushering both me and her husband away from the buried and badly broken machine. Something took two of its visible appendages off close to the body – which is also heavily damaged – before leaving it to be covered in dirt and eventually serve to form a small hill just off of the old road. Something either very big, very angry, or very determined.

It’s pulverized now, though, so Sheik is safe enough toying with the ancient energy it still discharges every few seconds. He works with more magical power simply lighting our camp fires. He’ll be fine. I’m irritated, but fine. Senza may not be. Tetra is in danger. I don’t know if I have the time or energy to do anything _but_ find my fiancée and make her safe, and I don’t even know _how_ I’m going to do that, just that I have to. I _have_ to. He’s supposed to be _helping_ me.

Not standing and staring at a heap of junk while Spera tells me which roads have stalled construction projects on them and where typical traffic would have left vehicles blocking the way. Not write complicated runes on the metallic edges with the marker he insisted on bringing. Not poke at the bit that still lights up while her husband talks about the weather and which areas tend to turn to a muddy mire every spring. Not slow me down. Not make me wait.

I hate waiting.

He knows that, so I have to assume what he’s doing is something he deems important enough to make me wait for him long after we have a solid plan of action and the nice couple has invited us to at least stay for lunch. Our Bond tells me nothing more than the intensity of his focus. I can’t know if that focus is on something useful, or something inane, and can’t bring myself to ask without saying something I know I’ll regret. I wanted to be at Whittleton Manor…earlier than we’ll get there now, thanks to his dalliance with the rusted hull of same kind of machine that basically killed the Hero of Champions.

I have a hard time believing in century-long cat-naps, however. King Sidon is living proof that Zora can live an exceedingly long time, and the current Goron Patriarch is nearing his one hundred and -fifth birthday, but none of the peoples that share homo-sapiens as a genetic starting point get much past the century marker with any regularity. Even if the Hero had been a prodigy and gotten his shield by eighteen, living fifty-four years after reestablishing Castletown would mean he was a minimum of one hundred and seventy-two when he died.

It’s simply impossible, though I can understand it _seeming_ like a hundred years. It’s probably been less than ten minutes since Spera’s husband went to make lunch and she went to fetch Sheik, but it feels like it’s been a decade. There isn’t that much space to pace in their little house behind the center. Just ten steps from the end of the hall to the end of the parlor. Twelve across. Tiny, and sparse. Still, they seem happy, though the old man laughs at my stalking from one end of his home to the other.

“Ah, sit down m’Lord. You’ll wear a rut in the rug. My love will be back with yours soon enough.” His attempt to convince me falls on deaf ears, plugged both by the damage I took with the Bloat and his assumptions. Talking is better than stalking. I might end up walking right out the door.

“He’s not…that’s…he’s not my love. Princess Tetra is my fiancé. Sheik is just a servant.” Slave, technically, though I’ll make sure to do everything I can to guarantee it stays a technicality. I can’t help blushing, however, because I just came perilously close to lying, and with the door opening behind me, Sheik might have heard.

“Tch, love comes in many forms, Lord Korokshire, not just legally binding ones.” He snorts, laying the top halves of a series of sandwiches on the bottoms and slicing them deftly on the diagonal, the faint rasp of his knife against the cutting board enough to tell me that I should probably have my ears checked out by someone who looks after them for a living. They ache, and I keep pulling flakes of dried blood out every time I dig. “Why, when I was your age, I had half a dozen loves, and another half dozen lovers besides. You can never run out of love. The heart just gets bigger.”

“You telling our secrets, Sturion?” Spera grins, a wane looking Sheik shuffling along behind, eyes alight and hands still twitching from his little distraction with the remains of the Guardian.

“You replacing me with a younger man, Spera?” He teases, sliding the sandwiches onto a plate.

“Nah, this one’s too bony.” The warmth in her voice tells anyone that she doesn’t mean it cruelly. Sheik doesn’t seem to care and glides over to me, placing a small blue crystal wrapped in a thin cord next to the place setting of the chair I was about to take.

“Sit down, you look awful.” I tell him, pocketing the attempt at placating me and wondering if he’ll be capable of riding after lunch. I can’t leave without him, he’s the only one that can use this “Gossip” that I remind myself I know nothing about, and the only one who can somehow track and tell me where Tetra is. If she’s okay.

Please let her be okay.

He drags out one of the chairs with a painfully high pitched scrape across the floor and sits with a thump on the upholstered cushion, as inelegant as I’ve ever seen him move, then barely manages to pick at his food. Half a sandwich is not enough to fuel the kind of effort I need from him, and Sturion made each of us two whole ones. Double stacked and bursting at the edges. I manage both of mine easily, and could still have more.

“Eat up, dearie.” Spera urges before I can order him to do it, keeping his glass filled with lemon sun tea and treating him much like a spoiled child when he pushes the second sandwich away. Instead of forcing the issue, she simply wraps it up in wax paper and packs it away for him to eat later. Then she makes us wait half an hour before letting us go exercise, the small wind-up clock still keeping the approximate time. She tried to insist on a full hour, but with my urgency and Sheik’s agreement, uses the time to draw up a remarkably accurate map instead of arguing with me, including my intended route in bright blue highlighter as a bonus. Sturion sits next to my Sheik and I have to tell myself not to be jealous as they hold hands.

If I’d thought to ask how he’s been tracking Tetra, I could be on my way. He could catch up when he’s done sulking, and I wouldn’t be stuck here counting the seconds until our hosts deem us…_him_…ready to go.

Pacing helps. Planning helps. Going over each type of monster I’ve faced and how they move, their strengths and weaknesses, helps. A little. It’s doing _something_, even if that something is ultimately useless. Each tick of the second hand seems to take three, each step doesn’t get me any closer to Tetra or Senza or even back on the road to start moving towards them. Half an hour might as well be a year. According to the antique wind-up clock in the entryway, we end up leaving for Whittleton manor at seven minutes after one, a full three hours later than I had hoped.

I don’t forget my manners, thanking both Spera and Sturion for both keeping the Welcome Center welcoming and sharing their home with us, and Sheik bows almost as deeply as he does when Tetra is in the room. Sturion goes so far as to pat his head, and he dares hug the old man in return, delaying our departure even further. I wait until we’re past the wind-break line of trees keeping the urban sprawl contained before circling back to match pace with him. He’s been lagging.

“Try to keep up, would you? Don’t make me regret choosing you over Kahti or Ashei.” I warn. Even though neither of them have abilities that would be as useful to me, they would be able to match my pace. We need to _go_.

“Yes, sir.” His muted tone startles me, because it’s not at all deferential, and more than a little biting. Entirely determined. Good. He’ll at least try harder than he has been all day today. Finally. I approve, and pull ahead again to lead the way. The rumble of his tires against the pavement gets louder, as do the strange, breathy whispers that started after we left the Welcome Center. I should have taken the time to shower while we were there as well, and clean out my ears, but then we’d be even later in leaving and that’s unacceptable.

This entire situation is unacceptable. I do not accept it, and therefore must do my best to change it. Go faster. Pedal harder. Move, because every uncertain second counts. Every last one.

As my legs protest another hill, I have to acknowledge that I’m pushing myself further, harder, and faster than I can really handle. If I’m having trouble with the pace I set, Kaya must be exhausted. I shouldn’t take my frustrations out on him…but I can’t really find it in me to apologize, either. He’s been expending the effort to match mine since I snarled at him, and he _was_ metaphorically dragging his feet before.

I need him. Need his abilities and his connections, need him to keep tabs on my fiancée from a distance because I can’t, I don’t know how, which means he _has_ to keep up. I can’t carry him the entire way, though I can still carry him a fair distance. He needs to adapt, because I need him at my side, and Tetra needs to be safe. He promised.

A Hyrule without the Royal Family’s beneficent magic – protecting us all from the depredations of the insatiable greed and eternal hatred existentially known as Malice – is no Hyrule at all. We may as well become another Termina, where political machinations of a series of dictatorial despots have people still living in Twilight Era circumstances, or Lorule, where virtual slavery is considered acceptable as long as quotas are met and profit margins keep rising infinitely.

Not that our own history is free of blemishes, or there aren’t problems that need addressing right now, but we’re working on it. All of us, together. We…

…oh damn.

Pulling to the side of the road at the bottom of the hill – where houses start to be close enough together to be called blocks – lets Sheik roll to a stop beside me, head tilted and a hand on one of his daggers.

“No monster.” I shake my head. “But I just thought of something. Has anyone talked to the Zora, Gorons, Rito, Gerudo, Yeti, or Kokiri? They need to be kept informed of what’s happening and I don’t know if anyone would have thought to send someone since the phones and networks are down.”

“Of course.” His posture relaxes, but when he doesn’t say any more I realize I’m going to have to prompt him specifically for the information I want – again – instead of him offering it in anticipation of my needs, or fleshing out my queries…having a damn conversation. He’s like a search engine with only one access point, and you need a different password each time to log in. Inhuman. In_humane_.

It’s so beyond frustrating, and if I ever get my hands on the woman responsible, she will answer for it. I’ll make her take the curse off him if it’s the last thing she ever does. I won’t kill her after that, won’t even punish her. I can’t be both infuriated and impartial…and it’s not my place. True justice means everyone deserves a fair trial, but I _will_ ensure that Sheik can speak his mind once again.

“How?” I prod, and he rolls his eyes, pointing to the small grey stone I remember I don’t know anything about on the cord of beads in his hair wrap that may or may not be referred to as a Gossip Stone. Maybe. I don’t know, and will continue not to know until he tells me otherwise. It does change my next question, though. “Who?” He stares at me for a moment before closing his eyes and pulling his dagger out to poke the tip of his finger, lifting the bloody droplet to the stone.

“Envoy. Zora, Goron, Rito, Gerudo, Kokiri.” He murmurs.

“I know who the envoys are. I need to know who is keeping our allies informed right now.” I sigh, and he glares at me for a second before his eyes go distant and unfocussed as his magic sings to life.

“…_rakaaaz_…” It seems to hiss, instead of the string chorus I’m expecting, though there are still echoes of it present.

“Eliya Koda, Shora Hah, Barida Akkala, Raka Zunzo, and Mag Halen are the current _Sheikah_ envoys on the representative councils.” He tells me, capable of stressing the single word and conveying his exasperation with my insular assumptions. It makes me want to smile, because as odd as it sounds, I miss his acerbic commentary. More than I want to admit. It’s not the only thing I miss about him, either, and he’s standing right here in front of me.

In front of a large, round blue blob with red and yellow eyes oozing its way towards us. Two…three of them, seeping up from the ground itself with a faint trickle, practically on top of him.

“Sheik!” I cry as I lunge, knowing that I won’t be able to get to him, that my bow is too far to reach packed away on the back of the bike, my sword too slow to draw, my shield too awkward. Time seems to slow down as I let my bike fall and try anyway. Three strides to the first one, strike with my overhead draw – down and across where its shoulder would be if it were anything but an amorphous blob. Feel it dissolve, turn to the next, bringing my blade back up and through that one’s ‘side’. Two steps. Lunge, thrusting straight through the chest. Or the…middle.

They crumble with a wet dribble, and my bike clatters to the ground as my Sheik startles out of his paralysis, stumbling back from the gelatinous remains tumbling across the roadway. My heart is pounding as I check my blade for damage or goo, fingers coming away damp from the ooze but no worse for the contact. If I leave that slime on, though, damage is inevitable, and I can’t exactly ring up Ashei or Tarrey to bring me a new sword if this one fails. I need to clean it.

“Can you put up a barrier again?” I ask, and wait for the change in his melody that tells me he’s actively working on it to find my supplies in the mess I made of my packs when I let my bike fall over. It was worth it, though, to keep him safe.

As I tend to my suddenly much more valuable weapon, he picks up the blue balls of muck the monsters left and ties off yesterday’s shirt to make a kind of basket on the handle bars of his trike to keep them in. That done, as I oil and buff, he pulls out Sturion’s sandwich and turns his back on me to eat half of it. The other half he leaves next to my knee - still wrapped to keep the bugs off – but clearly expecting me to finish it.

Sword clean and sheathed, suddenly ravenous, I do. He stays sitting and staring at the horizon, arms wrapped around his knees and chin resting on his arms as he keeps watch for more of the oozy-blob-monsters, Bokoblins, or other things I haven’t met yet. Withdrawn beyond what even that damn curse imposes. Re-packing my bags takes very little time, but there’s something else I need to tend to before we go.

“I’m sorry.” I apologize, and wrap my arms around his back in a hug that will stay one sided as he tenses in my hold. “I just…need to find Tetra and make sure she’s alright. I need to keep people safe. You know that, right? I didn’t mean to be so short with you.” I sigh into his hair, and receive a pat on the arm in return. He’s still tense, though. “What’s wrong?” I ask, and hope that it’s the right question to get an answer that I can do something about.

“I didn’t see you move.” He says, tilting his head up to look me directly in the eye for the first time since we stopped at Spera’s.

“What?” Now I’m confused.

“I didn’t see you move.” He says again, which doesn’t help. “The Chu-chus seeped out of the ground, you yelled for me, and then you disappeared for a half of a second. Then they were all dead.” He shudders. “I didn’t see it. You were just gone, and then you were back and they were dead.” He clarifies.

“But…” I protest. He sees everything, how could he miss the entire encounter? “…everything seemed to be moving so slowly, if at all.” Including him. What if they weren’t? What if it was me? He certainly seems to think so. Before I can think of a question to ask, he turns cumbersomely in my grasp and presses his cloth covered mouth against mine, driving not only my questions out of my head, but everything aside from the feeling of his touch. I can taste his laughter, uncomfortably close to hysteria, as it bubbles out of his lips. It’s strained, both by tension and the cloth over his face.

…_shikaren, konklavar…_

“What was that?” My pocket vibrates with the force of the blue crystal’s clarion, and I yank it out by the cord to stare at it until the light hurts my eyes and I have to look away.

“Pirate charm. The Gossip.” Sheik says, taking it from me and looping the whole thing around my neck as utter bedlam erupts, the sheer volume of it splitting my skull and making me cry out in pain as I fall to my knees, clutching at my head.

“…_forthi isa…” _“…but then…” "...is what happens when..."

“_…Ridorana…” _“With the five noted incidents…”

“…oath of…” “I swear to you that…” “One fifty-eight.”

“_Min emor…_” “Octorok about the size of…” "...hasn't been that long since..."

“Farore, Rainwatcher, you really…” 

“That’s because you never…” “…then she went and…”

“When I can, I promise…” "...see the report out of Tabantha?"

“…says hello to…” “…_nyai, Yeran. Min…”_

“When is the…” “…I thought…”

“Hush, now. The Conclave is sufficiently gathered. Let us begin.” I recognize Grand Master Impa’s no-nonsense orders for what they are, and would happily kiss her for them, because all the other voices go silent and let my exploding head not feel like it’s exploding quite as much.

I don’t appreciate not hurting enough, though I appreciate Sheik’s cool hands on my temples and the faint vibration of his magic as he steadies me. The contact also clarifies the voices enough that they don’t sound like they’re coming from inside a tin can. It still _hurts_, but I don’t want to gouge out my own brain to make it stop anymore.

“Lightkeeper, status report.” She commands.

“My arm is still bloody broken in three places, but otherwise better than anticipated. The fourth is secure and healthy, and we have more allies than I could have hoped, though less in way of supplies than I’d like. We won’t starve, but the lack of a real grocery store here makes it a true food desert. Medicines are also rare, like pain killers and feminine supplies. Both would be appreciated, though aren’t necessary yet.” I recognize Tye’s voice, but all I can see is steadily wavering blue.

“Are there any capable of discretion to gather and deliver?”

“I, _Ridorana_.” A young woman answers. “Pain killers, re-useable feminine products, and two cans of green beans. If Sunsinger can deliver?”

“_Ya_, I can.” A vaguely familiar voice agrees.

“I have dried spaghetti, and can meet at the Magpie’s Pawnshop.”

“I can be there around dusk, with peanut butter.”

The list increases as volunteers come forward with available foodstuffs and transportation methods for it, though not a lot of anything and nothing close to a full meal. Like Tye said, they won’t starve, but they won’t be doing well, either…and this is the very best that those gathered have to offer. I hadn’t realized just how precarious the area he’s in – wherever that is – could be for supplies.

The Royal Family has to do better for their people. Hyrule’s people. As Tetra’s fiancé, that means we have to do better. There’s no good reason that anyone should go hungry in a city as well off as Castletown.

“Any word on the second?” Impa asks.

“Nothing new.” That voice is unfamiliar, but distinctive enough that I’ll be able to remember it easily if I ever hear it again.

“Truthspeaker, status?” The Grand Master queries in such a way that Sheik can actually respond.

“The Shroud of Malice has been broken over Korokshire. We’ve passed the Mabe Prairie Welcome Center and are on the way to Whittleton Manor to cleanse the taint there, and should progress towards the city core in two, perhaps three days at this rate. But, _Ridorana,_ you must know that there was a buried Guardian Stalker behind the Welcome Center, and it was active.” Sheik says, Impa’s request for information apparently vague enough that he can answer her.

“Was?”

“I removed both the Rune Access Protocol connections and the Timeshift Stone Adapter, so it shouldn’t be able to draw power from the ambient aether any longer. I then melted the wire transmission lines, so even if it _does_ stay active, it won’t be able to move or attack.” He tells…well, everyone…and I regret my assumptions about him yet again. He was working, and working hard, while I thought he was just toying with something shiny and making me wait while he did it. “Then I…I re-wrote the T.S.A. to make a…a Pirate Charm f-for Li…for Lin…f-for my Lord.” He stutters. He never stutters. He doesn’t even speak unless asked a direct question.

Impa doesn’t seem to need to request details from him like I do. Getting him to elaborate for me is like pulling teeth, and she just needs a single word to get him to talk until he pushes the edges of what could be considered a reasonable response.

“You overstep yourself, Truthspeaker. That is more than enough.” The woman responsible for his curse says, and he growls once before going silent. Again. I still see only blue, but can hear Sheik pant, smell blood, and feel the warm stone against my chest vibrate faintly with each word.

“That _is _enough.” I agree, clutching on to the pendant and putting every bit of will I have in me into making her understand her error. I can almost see her move as her attention shifts from him to me, hear the rustle of her clothes, the solid tap of her footsteps, the soft huff of her breathing enough to give me a picture of the type of person I am dealing with.

I don’t like her, but I think I can understand her. Goal oriented and determined…though I can’t discern her driving force. Now to find out if I can give her whatever it is she wants so she leaves us alone.

“How nice of you to join us, Lord Korokshire.” She purrs. “Your presence is…most exquisite.” Malon does the subtle erotic moan better, and hers is entirely false. I really don’t like her now. Sheik whines, reminding me why I’m even talking to her. She’s playing with us. With Tetra in peril and Hyrule under siege from an as of yet unknown foe, that’s unacceptable. I can’t hold my anger in any longer.

“No more games.” I snarl, wishing I could tear out her throat like she’s silenced his tongue.

“Oh? Has your Sheik been failing in his duties to you, still? I thought I had fixed that.” She pouts.

“He doesn’t need _fixing_. Why do you all keep saying that?!” Yes, he has issues, but they just prove he’s lived through everything fate has thrown at him. He’s been shaped, not shattered.

“Because the man you call your Sheik is broken, child. You cannot fulfill your destiny with broken tools, whether they be purely utilitarian, aetherically enhanced, or sacred weapon.” She patronizes. “I simply thought you’d do better with a different, less flawed, specimen in hand. An upgrade, if you will, in exchange for the defective model you were presented with.”

“He is mine.” I warn her, wondering when I lost sight of the blue, looking in her red eyes and searching for any of the warmth I can find in Kaya’s without success. “_Mine_. Not yours.”

“Of course, my Lord. Your kindness is as delightful as I could hope.” She reaches for me, and something tells me that letting her touch me would be bad. Very bad. I step back, tear my gaze away from her, and am back on the road with my Sheik clutching at my jacket, his head bowed and shaking. Unable to do so much as whimper and clearly trying anyway. In so much pain. _Unacceptable._

“Take his curse off, right now.” I demand, falling back towards the swirling blue, feeling the stone in my hand spark and crackle along my nerves worse than the shock I got playing with 9 volt batteries as a kid. It stings. I don’t let go.

“Are you certain, my Lord? That binding, your so called ‘curse’, is _flawless_. Generations went in to perfecting it. It is a true work of art. A national _treasure_.” She breathes.

“Yes, I’m sure! I wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t. Take it _off_.” Nodding, I cover Sheik’s trembling hands with my own. He’ll be able to blister the air with oaths soon enough.

“It will hurt both of you, very much.” She cautions, for once not flirting or teasing or masking her sadistic intent. “Pain in exchange for power.” She wants it to hurt. Not that I’m surprised by it, given what she’s done. She enjoys causing other people pain. I can hear it in her smile.

“I can handle it.” Straightening my spine, softening my stance, I get ready to absorb the blow. It can’t be that bad. I’ve already faced down a Twilit Bloat, so a Shadowed Bitch shouldn’t cause me any trouble. Kaya’s lived through things I would classify as torture. He’ll be fine. Just like every monster we’ve come across, we’ve got this one, together.

“Of that, Hero, I have no doubt. Very well. I will remove the curse upon you both. We’ll discuss payment later.” She purrs, with malicious pleasure. “Now hold still, this is going to hurt _quite_ a lot, I promise.”

Her magic swells, gathering for an impending crescendo - a sickly violet infection edged in septic red and black – which is bright enough that I have to look away. Sheik, burying his face in my shoulder, gives me a direction to turn. His hair coverings smell like sweat and grass and dust as I breathe deeply and she lets the alarming amount of magic go. He shifts in my grasp, arms stretching out, his own spell work rising to meet it. The first wave hits, and he grunts, but matches it. Then the second, and he staggers. Then a third, and his magic crashes down even as hers roars up.

Like Sheik, it appears that this woman also cannot lie. She can, however, use the truth to mislead. I’m braced for physical pain, and that’s not what she hits me with. Not at all…and it goes on long enough that I can adapt and realize that part of it hurts because I’ve run out of breath from screaming. I have a choice. Inhale, and let it continue, or not, and surrender to the sweet caress of oblivion.

I can’t feel anything but bleak despair. Can’t smell anything but a toxic sickness. Can’t hear anything but the sound of my own heart pounding. Can’t see anything but darkness.

Tetra is out there, somewhere, and needs me like I need her. Malon needs us both. Sheik is close by, and going through the same thing I am. He has to be, I was holding him. He needs me, too. Senza is waiting. Gonzo, Zuko, Nudge, Mako, Niko....the whole gang. All of the staff back home, closer than family…they’re all waiting. I might not be able to sense anyone else…but I am not alone. I’m not. They’re all waiting for me. I can’t disappoint them. I know how much waiting sucks.

I inhale. Tetra needs me.

It continues. I have to hold on, for all of them.

I don’t let go. I don’t have to. Consciousness lets go of me, first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stayed tuned for more catastrophic consequences!
> 
> Also, feed my ego by either commenting (screaming about angst counts, as does keyboard smashing) or clicking the kudos button.


	9. Pow, right in the Keese...er

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Swearing helps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: moderate violence, mild blood, mild gore, moderate injury, panic, suicide ideation, reference to child porn/murder  
Warning: as always with Sheik's chapters - language, anxiety, the gay agenda  
If I missed any, please tell me so I can adjust the warnings!

Great _fucking_ job, Kaya. You utterly incompetent pile of fermenting discount Moblin _shit_. _Get it right!_ You have to. Farore, you _have to_. The entire _fucking_ _country_ depends on it, not just you and your…your…whatever he is to you, now.

Oh, _Goddesses_.

“Come on, you Thrice damned pathetic excuse for a Hero!” As fantastic as it is to be able to speak, without anyone capable of listening I don’t find the same kind of cathartic relief in it as I’ve been craving. Whatever nightmare amalgamation of memory and illusion that Veran has him trapped in is keeping him from being capable of acting like a bipedal mammal in a hurry, and running away seems like a plan. A good plan. A fantastic plan. Seemed like a plan, at least, until he wouldn’t fucking _move_. Wouldn’t _wake up_! Oh, Nayru…I can’t leave him here, so I have to fix it.

Do it _right_. Fucking _now_.

At least he’s breathing again.

_Fuck,_ Kaya! _Get it together._

I have no idea how long we were both out, but it can’t have been more than a few minutes for me. There are too many opportunistic monsters about for it to have been any longer than that.

One Meteo Wizzrobe I can handle alone on an ass-tastic fuck of a life destroying day. Shielding my…my…shielding Link from the Sage of Shadow’s malicious wrath…

…oh _Saints and Sages_ Veran has been Corrupted. Fuck, fuck, fuck…

…took me out and put me down for a smidge. I’m used to being alone, though. Used to fighting every day, sometimes every hour, every minute, to find the will to live with only a dead memory, crushing responsibility, and spite for motivation. He’s not. He’s _not_, and he’s not _waking up_, and he should be. He _should_ be! _Fuck_ me. He’s breathing. Alive. Sort of. _He’s_ _alive_. Alive for as long as I can keep him that way, unconscious dead-weight that he is and I’m _not strong enough _to move him to safety and here is _not_ fucking _safe_. Not with three Lizalfos circling, tasting the air for the prey they _know_ is here and a colony of Keese waiting for their turn at the leftovers.

All things considered, even with my tongue free of entanglement, if I had a choice between being here like this right now and shitting in my hands then clapping for the opportunity to never speak again as long as everything else went back the way it was, I know which I’d pick.

Fucking Fierce Deity _owes me_ for this.

Ten Deku-nuts. Eight daggers. Twenty sealed spell tags. A spear. A sword I suck at wielding. Two shields I can barely carry. A bow I don’t know if I can draw. Thirty arrows, five bomb arrows, thirteen shock arrows, two ice arrows. Urbosa’s Fury. Naryu’s Love. Mipha’s Grace. Din’s Fire. A coil of thirty meters of rope. Fuck, might as well include Link’s breath as a weapon at this point. All the rage, anger, pain, and hate of dead friends and dead strangers in their Spirit Orbs, neutralized and sealed in beads to degrade into nothing but aether, so the ever-hungering Malice of Demise cannot feed on them and grow stronger.

I just have to experience it all over again, and let them go, to use it. Immerse myself in that despair. I’m not sure that I can. I’m not that strong. I’m barely strong enough to turn to my _own_ solidified anguish for the power it holds.

But Link could _die_, here and now, if I fail.

With him goes Hyrule.

Fuck me.

Just…_fuck me_.

I’m nothing more than a contemptable wilting violet of a spook armed with the weapons we carry, the brains Nayru gave me, and hope. The hope he gifted me, the hope that lured me into this prison of a promise. _Fucking hope_. It’s enough, because it has to be. Time to return the favor.

Focus, Kaya. Keep the light and shadows refracting, don’t let them see you. You can do this much in your sleep. Breathe. Remember your sigils. Recall the runes. Weave the _saithr_ strands into what you need. First, protect Link. He’s the most important.

It’s no avalanche, no untested amalgamation of diametrically opposed aether, no Banishment, no Mipha’s Grace. I don’t have the resources for that, can only maintain attention on so many things at once. Sweat drips down the small of my back as I tie off the last of my weaving with a half-dreamt memory of a prayer, hands cramping worse than Hawa when she can’t afford her meds. But it’ll do. It’ll do.

Lakna’s orb – full of the trauma inspired resentment that would have turned her into a Poe in time – comes to my fingers as though placed there. Spun of focus and frustration and fear. Slow and smoldering by the nature of its creation, the power takes some time to build. It’s still stronger than drawing on myself alone – even with bloodletting – and so I let the images and sensations of her life and death flow. Flickering through my mind’s eye, twining through my fingers, trailing down my hands. Fast, and then faster, the cord connecting us grows.

Wind, twist, coil, bind. _Come on_.

There.

Her strands join to mine, and I See. Hunger, but happiness. Hope. Growth. A partner providing warmth. A child…son…accident. Death. Loss. Unheard. Un-mourned. A home grown alien and cold. Alcohol to numb the pain. Illness from the alcohol. The deep pervasive agony of organ failure. The desire to hurt, as she was hurting, and so alone. So very alone.

Urbosa’s Fury rages at my fingertips, but it’s not enough for all of them. I reach for the next handful of strands, and pull.

Vanath and Veneer. They were so scared. Twins. Pretty girls. Too pretty. I know _that_ feeling all too intimately well. The Zora who found their waterlogged corpses in the Lanayru wetlands afterward needed years of therapy to be able to swim in still waters again. It took me nearly a year to not flinch when I saw a chocolate Hylian retriever, and the video is still out there. Circulating.

Keik – _father – _follows them, just like he did in life, jumping from Oren Bridge on the way to Zora’s Domain. Bank of Wishes my ass. I helped clean that up, too.

They go. I let them go. I can’t help them anymore. I need to protect Link, which means drawing the monsters away while he rests if I can’t eliminate them entirely. The Shadow lets me move without being seen. My own skill lets me move without being heard. My aetheric barrier keeps Link from being noticed, even though I am no longer at his side. Time to move, you utter failure of an _esclavin_ spook. Once was once too many. Don’t let it happen again. _Ever_. Even if he’s no longer…

…don’t, Kaya. Just _don’t_. Not now.

Two bomb arrows stuck in the soft earth of a well-manicured front yard and a spelled tag need to be kept hidden, too, but not for long. Not for long. A shock arrow on a lamp post, tied in place with a meter of the rope, doesn’t need as long but is harder to hide. My bundle of regular arrows, tied in a tube with another meter of the rope, and six Deku Nuts on the base leaves me sweating in fear as I place the bundle and hope it doesn’t explode and kill me outright.

My traps are simple, but effective. Smart, sort of. A good use of available resources, definitely. Now for the utterly stupid shithead part of the plan.

The scales of the first Lizalfos glisten like the moustache of a man with a head cold as I pick up my spear and cast Nayru’s Love on myself to fend off the worst of the damage I’m about to incur. Daruk’s Protection would be better, but I’m running out of both time and resources, so a fully enhanced Love will have to do. Hiding behind a newer model sedan in uninspired almost-taupe gets me close enough to count the frilled spines on the Lizalfos’ back and catch the faint pulse of its heart beating in its chest. Bump-bump. Bump-bump. Bump-bump. The leathery skin is thick, but it can’t hide that small ticking motion from my gaze.

Or my spear.

It dies with a hiss of surprise, going down with barely a sound and disintegrating into the ashes of Darkness as all true Remnants do. I stay crouched and still, unable to believe my luck when neither of the other Lizalfos change their patrol patterns and the Keese don’t seem to notice the stench of the leftover horn, claw, or eye.

I mean, I get the smell, but fuck, why is it always eyes?

Stalking down the street further into the Whittleton district and towards the city proper gets me closer to the other two Lizalfos, but further from the Keese and further from Link. I watch them move, trying to find a pattern or rhythm to their movements that will let me take out one without alerting the other, and come up as empty as their reptilian gaze.

Maybe the trick Link used with the Bokoblins will work with Lizalfos as well. It’s worth a try. Tucking my spear in my arm, I pat down my pockets for the half pack of mostly chocolate bits leftover from the trail mix and fuck up. The blade of my spear scrapes against the window of the apple-red truck I’m hiding behind like nails on a chalk-board.

Good fucking job, there, Kaya. Subtle as a smoke alarm.

Both Lizalfos rush towards the noise, moving faster than I’ve seen them move at any point of their patrols and making me give up all pretense of stealth in favor of trying not to die. Urbosa’s Fury stuns them for just over a second, making the lighter one on my right drop its spear, which is a much cruder version of the weapon I carry. Still, best not to let it pick it up again. The rolls I practiced for hours under our Trainer’s supervision – then later while learning the basics of parkour, and again with Ashei – come in handy and let me both dodge and pick up the bone and wood weapon in one motion.

I take back all of the disparaging remarks I may have ever even so much as thought about Hestu and his enthusiastic poo-formance, because the new spear weighs nothing and keeps both of them far enough away to give me space to move for a few seconds before the slightly darker one with the asymmetrical spot on its lower leg snaps the rudimentary weapon into its component pieces and so many splinters.

Better that than my thigh, which was the other option. I’m tiring though, and forgot about the Keese entirely. They’re not as bright as the Lizalfos – which is impressive in a piteous sort of way – and don’t hesitate to flap in despite my active spear sheering one of them in half on the first arc, and thwacking three more on the backswing that also drives the larger Remnants back.

Keep moving Kaya. They’re not going to stand still and let you pick them off like the Koroks seemed inclined to do. The little seelie tree sprout spirits _can’t_ be Corruptions or Remnants. They weren’t listed in any of the compendiums of either, and some of those go all the way back to copies of copies from just before the Twilight Era.

Lizalfos and Keese are in every one, alongside how to kill them.

I forgot about the bomb-arrows as well, so when the lighter Lizalfos steps on the trap and stops to examine it, I trigger the spell scroll and begin my career in demolition landscaping. Clumps of vegetation and clods of dirt rain down along with Lizalfos bits – complete with retch inducing funk and those _fucking_ eyes – and I use the confusion to release a second blast of Urbosa’s Fury into the air.

It’s not as effective as the first – missing half the Keese entirely and only destroying two of them – but it’s not entirely useless, either. It catches the last Lizalfos’ rush full on, stopping it in its tracks and letting me turn and run towards the light post and the shock arrow I left there.

I’m not fast enough, and feel its claws rake through my jacket and shirt both to score across my left shoulder. I spin my spear in an overhead arc and keep it from completing a second strike, but I’m hurt now as well as tired. Slower. Less capable. Steadily weakening from the blood loss and the cuts that burn like a urinary tract infection.

I’m smarter than it is, though, and instead of using the last of my borrowed strength on Mipha’s Grace and then risk getting hurt again, I call on a flash of Din’s Fire to push it back into the post, and my last pent up charge of Urbosa’s Fury to set both the metal post and the shock arrow alight.

Crispy fried Lizalfos, now available in a sandwich or a wrap. Sandwich or wrap sold separately.

Fuck it _stinks_. Somewhere between burning mud and rotting fish. I gag, and one of the Keese takes the time to dive bomb my shredded skin, knocking me nearly off my feet. Right. Got to deal with the flying fuckers.

If nothing else, wandering all over the countryside for days on end has given me a new appreciation for the art of being bored to tears interspersed with brief moments of terror and perpetual exhaustion…and paying attention to otherwise mundane surroundings. There’s nothing special about the houses that border Castletown – except maybe the one with the hole I blew in the lawn – but I remember exactly where I left the Deku nuts and how far away they currently are.

I run.

The Keese follow, swooping down like…well, bats out of the Dark Realm. At least they aren’t on fire. Yet. Another Urbosa’s Fury – out of my own rapidly fading resources – sends them away long enough for me to slide over the hood of a silver town car and hide. They descend. I toss out the seed Rune of Din’s Fire. The Deku Nuts explode, sending the bundled arrows up and out like so much shrapnel.

When the sky stops raining innards, the last two of the Keese take in their dead brethren, and flee into the afternoon horizon. The only remaining hint of the Calamity is in the faint pink umbral edges of the altostratus wave clouds over the city. Azure pokes through every once in a while, and I slide to rest my back against the town car’s front tire, catching my damaged shoulder on the hard metal and biting back a groan of pain. It throbs, and is getting worse as my adrenaline fades.

Can’t rest yet. My…fuck, what do I even call him now? Lord? Fuck buddy? Spoony bastard? Link is still unconscious in the middle of the street where I left him to fight Veran’s malicious entanglement alone and even though none of the cars work under the Calamity’s influence, I can’t leave him there. It’s not safe. He needs to be safe, so he can save Princess Hilda. So she can save us all. On behalf of the Three, who decided that abandoning us to Their psychotic representatives was easier than sticking around for a bit Themselves. Just look at how well that worked out.

Holy Hylia, Warden of the Sacred Relic and Intercessory for all mortals, if I could strangle You for triggering this entire mess with Your _stupidly ruinous _plan for us all, I would appreciate it very much. Amen.

Oh, and Demise? Demon Lord of Tiny Dick Syndrome and Raging Impotency? Fuck you. Go suck on a Hestu-sized Korok seed and die, please and thank you. Much obliged.

Farore, my shoulder _hurts_. Worse than the first time Barnes decided lube was for pussies. Not as bad as my foster father breaking my arm while his wife watched and smiled. Somewhere in between. More burn-y, sharp and shivery. Less blunt and pressing. Broken skin, not broken bones, thank fuck. Almost a hundredth as bad as when Eran died. Fuck. Need to clean it, though, to keep whatever rampant nauseating putrescence is on a Lizalfos’ claws from giving me an infection on top of the wound itself.

Link is still sprawled in a loose-limbed Hylian pile of useless masculine beauty, and I half-sit, half-collapse next to him so I can dig through his pack and find the three vials of red potion concentrate he carries. Picking one, I leave the rest and find the pot before anything else. It’ll do. Careful not to spill any of the syrup - corrosive at this concentration - with my shaking hands and aching arm and fucking agony of a shoulder making me pant and gasp like someone’s eating out my ass, I measure the liter of water needed and add four droppers of the concentrate and stir.

Taking off my jacket makes me pass out again, for a fuck of a lot longer this time. The sun’s noticeably moved. Link’s muttering, but just as dead to the world as my first _domine_. Just about as helpful at the moment, too. Fuck, having an extra set of hands would be excellent right now. I can’t feel my left at all, and the Tears of Light on that wrist are pulsing in time with my heart. Fast and erratic. Damn it all.

I soak the entire circle I’ve drawn in my attempt to clean out the gashes of cloth and nail grime and now asphalt, but it doesn’t break the markings or the protections that it offers. If nothing else, it tells me that Link’s sleep is enforced, because he doesn’t even twitch with the soaking. Or add to it, thank Din. He’s been a big boy long enough to have left bedwetting behind as a distant pastime, and showed no sign of it being a kink. Not that I’d let him piss on me even if it was. That’s a hard nope. His stamina is ridiculous enough.

Focus, dumbass. You don’t have time for this unravelling shit right now. You’re already feverish. Alternating hot and cold and hot and cold and sweatier than a marathon runner’s jock strap. Fuck, get it _together_, Kaya.

Luckily, I didn’t knock over the reconstituted red potion when I fell over, and dribble it as carefully as a quiet drunk puts down a crystal wine glass to cover my entire side with the stuff. The spidery sensation of my skin and parts of muscle knitting back together reminds me that I hate spiders even more than I hate Lizalfos. The rapidly darkening sky reminds me that I can’t pitch the tent in the middle of the roadway, and that Link’s still fighting a battle that I can’t presently help him with.

If the Bond between us still existed, I could follow it back to find him, no matter where his dreams take him. Now, given what I know of him after warming his bed for less than a month and listening to his pillow talk, I can make an educated guess at the shape of his nightmares, but I cannot alter them. Those illusions are not mine to touch without a metric fuckton of prep work that I can’t do and a dozen tools that I don’t have right now…

…but I can touch _him_. Talk to him. Remind him he is not alone in the most visceral way possible. Not here. Here’s not safe. He needs to be safe. Losing one _domine_ already should have killed me, so losing a second…but Link is still alive, so even if the Bond is _gone_...

No. _No._ Shut _up_, Kaya. He’s alive. _Here_. Keep him that way, idiot.

Shelter first. The encroaching storm waits for no man, and there are five vehicles parked on the roadway with no owners in sight that I’m pretty sure I can break into. If nothing else, shattering a window would work, and – with the size of the houses and yards with their fancy ornaments, expensive fronts, and underground sprinklers – the vehicles should be insured against the depredations of desperate spook vandals and their unconscious liege lords.

After the Towne farm, though, I make absolutely certain no one is around to try and kill me for existing before even _attempting_ to move.

The midnight blue S.U.V. is the best option, followed by the red truck, and the Fierce Deity must be working on His tab because the S.U.V. isn’t even locked. I just have to open the door, fold down the seats, pop open the hatch, and haul my dear Lord Fat Ass down half a block. He’s much heavier on my back when he’s limp than he is when he’s randy and has climbed on top of me himself. Dragging him probably would have been smarter now that I think about it, but I still would have needed to lift his weight anyway, to get him inside. Where it’s safer, if not safe. Better. Less exposed.

Good fucking _shit_, though. If I didn’t know better I’d swear he was a Goron. One that ate bricks and shat solid cement. How can he be so fucking heavy when he’s only a little bit taller than I am?

I lay panting next to him once I get him up, knees bent over the bumper, and wish that the S.U.V. had a tackle box with a first aid kit and some juice and granola in it. There’s a first aid kit in the glove box, but not so much as a pack of gum anywhere else. I swallow my disappointment. Then I go back for our weapons. Then our packs. Then the tent. Then the bike, and by that point the wind has picked up and the thunder is rumbling as lightning flashes a warning and the first droplets fall. The tricycle is turned and maybe a third of the way to the S.U.V. when the sky opens up to give me a shower that’s even colder than the one I had at the Mabe Prairie Welcome Center.

I don’t have the energy to run the rest of the way, and tell myself to enjoy being cleansed of the filth of my fight as I wobble my way back to Link. Tuck the clubs he calls limbs further into the vehicle and close the hatch. Crawl in the driver’s side door and close that. Listen to the rain patter, then pound, then pour. Shiver.

I should get out of these wet clothes. Well, take off my pants and boots. And socks. Jacket and shirt are still outside. Undershirt is a rag. Got to unwrap my hair so it dries. The last is nearly too much, and I have to rest where I am before I can turn to the packs to pull out the sleeping bags. There’s more of a chance that I’m King Sidon’s long-lost sister than there is of me being able to move Link again. Fuck, I can barely lay his sleeping bag over him. I know I should eat something, but I’m just too tired. It’s been a douche-knuckle sandwich of a day. I need to unzip my sleeping bag, crawl in, and then sleep for a week. Maybe a week and a half. Just have to get it out of my pack, and then I can....

I wake up to the distant rumble of thunder and the light of the stars in their familiar patterns. Castletown. The Gossip. Lizalfos. A fight.

Link.

The crick in my neck from sleeping slumped against the interior siding of someone’s S.U.V. is enough to make me think my head is simply going to snap off of my shoulders if I move wrong, like an over-baked gingerbread man, but without the frosting or gumdrop buttons. No buttons here. No pants, either. Or shirt. I’m nearly naked, and chilled to the core, but my hair is mostly dry and my skin is cold and tight because of it.

The designer leather seat that kept me from falling over completely sticks to my bad shoulder, the tingles and rough tugging telling me the skin may be closed, but it’s not entirely healed yet. At least my narcoleptic naptime has given me the strength to find some of the sealed packages that are our rations for the duration. I’ve watched Link use them often enough to know how to handle them at this point, and managed to pick out one labelled ‘fried rice’ and another with ‘sweet and sour pork’ which even mostly resembles an actual fancy meal with more than one food group. A better meal than most of what I was eating in the dorms, point in fact.

Digging through Uncle Goriya’s discarded lunch leavings for dinner never netted me anything hot, and the packet of sweet and sour flavored pork bits comes with a Rune warming component. I don’t even need to hold Fire to get it ready, and end up licking the foil packet for the last traces of the sticky sauce. The rice is even better, though a bit salty. With how much I’ve been sweating, I’m not overly concerned. I am overly full – and still craving more – by the time the last grain of rice is gone. It’s a weird feeling, and more than a little confusing. Entirely illogical. I’ve stuffed myself silly, and am still hungry. Weak. Shaky. Shocky.

Maybe I’m just tired. Passing out does not count as sleeping. Neither does what Link is doing, but that will _have_ to wait until I can see what the fuck it is I’m mucking about with. The Witchfinder Extraordinaire didn’t exactly anticipate any of us _esclavin _brats actually needing to use the illegal magic she was instructing us to identify, let alone having to untangle something created by the most proficient living master of said illegal magic. Of course, the whole Witchfinder Branch is as short sighted as a rabid badger and twice as vicious. It’s a measure of my exhaustion how many fucks I just don’t have to give.

Fed, I at least have the energy to find my sleeping bag and unroll it, roll the Hero onto it, flatten the edge, and open his up to lay over him like a blanket instead of haphazardly throwing it over him like a used tissue. That much completed, my rediscovered quarter brain-cell reminds me to lock the fucking doors against some of the Calamity’s more intelligent monsters. If the owner of the S.U.V. wants to kick us out, they’ll have the keys and can kick us out. If more Lizalfos show up, I want at least one layer of steel between us and their supernaturally enhanced senses. It might only give me the pleasure of knowing what it was that killed me, but hey, I’d rather know.

I’ve had plenty of time to contemplate my end. _Years._ To wish for it, though I haven’t ever taken steps in that direction. I owe too many people far, far too much, their efforts and their memories both, to give in to what always ends up being temporary yearning. Too fucking stubborn to die by my own hand, thanks. Too spiteful to let someone else have that pleasure. I’d always thought it’d come either fast and sudden, or slow and lingering and alone. Something ridiculous, just like my life.

Not that I imagined the return of an evil as ancient as recorded civilization as the means. It still might not be. Just because the Calamity has taken to the skies once more and destroyed life as we know it, it doesn’t automatically follow that it will be what kills me. I could choke to death on a poorly rehydrated ration pack, or have a stroke, or freeze, or starve, or fall victim to friendly-fire...the options really are endless. No one would blame me if I simply picked one and went with it.

I’m just…tired. So very tired.

But Link needs to live, and since our Bond is no longer one of the options of relieving me of my mortal form, I’m going to have to work twice as hard to make sure he stays breathing. So I need to stay breathing, and stay close. Keep Mipha’s Grace as a cantrip, and use it if needed. Even if it drains me entirely. I promised I’d be his Sheik. Veran destroying the Bond doesn’t free me from that self-imposed obligation. He’s still my _domine_. My master.

My…friend.

He is my friend, I think. He wouldn’t have asked Veran to remove her curse if he didn’t care for me at least a little bit. I still served him with it in place, properly, as a Sheik is supposed to. Yet at the very first opportunity, he moved to have it destroyed. That means he likes me as I am…right? I’ve seen it in his colors, but he hasn’t affirmed it. He could just as easily be one of those people that can’t separate lust and affection. I can, and I’ve seen both, in him. Both in the bedroom and outside it.

I’d like a little more outside of it, honestly.

The affection he gives to practically everyone, but that lust…damn. _Hot_ damn. And the combo deal? Sold. Not that he needed to fuck me beyond settling the Bond. I was just available, and if not always wanting, at least willing. I’ve got hard-won skills in that department that I don’t mind sharing, but…I’ve got desires too, damn it, and if the timing isn’t ideal I’m still not going to say no. Why would I? He _always_ makes it good, and makes it _look good_ while doing it which is an achievement in and of itself. But he keeps asking if it’s okay. Repeatedly. No matter how many times I tell him it is.

It’s…confusing. He already has multiple lovers, and he was fucking clear telling old man Sturion that I’m not one of them. I’m just a servant. One that puts out whenever he gets the urge, and can’t get pregnant no matter how many loads he dumps in me. If he _really_ cared, he’d have listened at least one of the times I asked him to wear a condom, not just help me clean myself up on occasion when he’s finished and feeling magnanimous.

Goddesses you are a fucking idiot, Kaya. If you weren’t the only way he could find Princess Tetra, he would have left you behind days ago. Once he wakes up, he’ll leave the first chance he gets, probably without even telling you. It’s not like the Bond ensured anything but your obedience to his will and that you’d take any fatal blow aimed at him in his stead. Now that it’s gone, you’re as useless as a one legged cat trying to bury a turd on a frozen lake.

Still. You promised…and he has been so very kind, especially for a Hylian. A Hylian _Lord._ You’re just a lousy spook. If you don’t fuck up and he wakes up, maybe you can work something out in the morning. Surely he’s feeling horny by now. It’s been days since he’s drained his balls. You could let him fuck you without a condom again, since he likes that so much. Without lube, even. Just slobber on it more when you give him a half and half if that’s what it’ll take to let you stay by his side. If he wakes up.

Please, Farore…let him wake up.

As pathetic as I am for wanting it, as spectacularly foolish as it is of me to act on that desire, curling up under the same covering as Link and burrowing into his side is a comfort. I can even flop his arm around a bit to pretend like he’s holding me in his sleep, pretend that he likes me beyond the necessary intimacy of the _esclavin_ Bonding, or for more than just the easy sex. Pretend that, for once in my life, someone might actually care about me as a person...fuck, that someone even considers me a person, and not a remarkably well trained animal.

I _know_ it’s not real, nothing more than an illusion to provide comfort in a stressful situation. I’m not lying about any of that. I just…it feels good to be held. I like it, like the illusion it provides. He’s not actually holding me. I’m stealing his warmth for a while. Just a little while. Tomorrow I can hopefully break apart Veran’s trap, we’ll go recruit Lady Senza, rescue Princess Tetra, and then find a way to get the Hero to Princess Hilda’s side.

Wherever _she_ is. Probably in the heart of wherever whoever caused this is. Damn logic. Tracking Princess Tetra – whom I’ve interacted with recently, who has been in the Gossip with Tye who I grew up with and is like a brother to me, and is a member of the Royal Family with all that entails – is easier. Princess Hilda is more of an unknown. Still, Link needs to be there, and bring the party. Then she can seal the Calamity, just like the myths and legends say, and everything will go back to normal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With the editing and writing of this part of the Calamity is Calling story arc, according to my outline Unleavened will end up being 30-35 chapters. Hopefully. I should be able to continue posting every 2nd week for the duration, but may need a small hiatus between the end of this and the beginning of the next.  
Unless someone veers off the charted course and drags the story kicking and screaming in another direction, that is.  
If so, I will be posting side-stories and other character's POVs during the interim.
> 
> As always, sorry for the angst, it's going to get worse.  
Comments and kudos appreciated.
> 
> Tenpointson


	10. Serenade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Link dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: childhood rejection, minor character illness/death, betrayal  
Warnings: bad trip alteration of sensory input, Link being a gentlemanly perv, subtle trauma is still trauma

“Remember, your father is a very important man, Link. He needs peace and quiet to do his work.”

“I know, mommy. I’ll be good.” I promise. Not like last time. I didn’t _mean_ to drop the coffee mug, but I still did. It made a really big mess, so father doesn’t bring work home any more even though I’ve gotten better at carrying things.

“If he asks, you can tell him about meeting Princess Tetra at school, but only if he asks.”

“She wanted me to lick a frog!” I wrinkle my nose like Auntie Telma does when I get my clothes muddy. “It tasted funny.”

Mommy laughs.

“Yes, well, frogs do. You should have Mrs. Gillian cook one for you, first. They taste much better with garlic and butter.”

"I don’t wanna.”

“Don’t want to.”

“I don’t want to eat a frog.”

“Even if Princess Tetra asks you to?” Mommy asks me, with the tone that means I’m supposed to think about it. I dunno. I like Tetra, but I didn’t like the way the frog’s skin felt on my tongue. It was _super_ gross. But…if I went over to her house, and her cook gave me some, that’s different.

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t.” If Princess Tetra asks me I would, to be polite, like the green slimy stuff Mr. Muzu shared from his lunch when I asked. I really don’t want to though.

“Oh sweetie, you’re such a good boy.” Mommy puts her hand on my head, but doesn’t rub it like she normally does. Auntie made me take a bath in the afternoon and change clothes for supper, because father is coming home to eat with us between meetings. Then she combed my hair and put hair spray on my head. It was sticky, but made my hair straight and shiny like mommy’s hair.

Mom’s hair is falling out.

The doctor’s don’t know what it is, but are doing everything they can. I don’t believe them, because they only come once a week for less than an hour, and talk to themselves, and leave. They talk over my mom, over my head, like neither of us are there. I don’t even know why they come here at all, if they’re not going to talk to us or even look at her.

“Tell me about your day at school.” Mom asks when they’re gone again, and Telma brings us tea. She sounds tired, even though she slept most of the day.

“We played dodgeball in Phys. Ed. today, and my team won!” I grin, and pour most of the cream into my tea, along with three spoons of sugar. It’s too bitter otherwise, but mom likes it, so I drink it, too. “But Mallar nailed Niko in the face. Gave him a bleeding nose and split lip. Tetra got him…”

“_Princess_ Tetra.”

“_Princess_ Tetra got him back though. Hit him right in the nuts while he was laughing at Niko. Mr. Orca didn’t even say anything, and he saw me pass her the ball.”

“Link…”

“_I _didn’t do anything! Well, I laughed, but he deserved it! He’s always so mean, mom!” Always. He kicked over the bunny nest in the football field and stepped on all the baby bunnies, just because he could. I saw him do it. Then he hurt Niko, and Niko was on his team.

“If you were a little bit nicer to him, he might be nicer back. It’s not easy moving schools halfway through the year, let alone cities.”

“Mooooom.” I whine. I _was_ nice to him. That was days ago already. He broke my favorite marker all over my desk. Malon was nice to him and he pulled her hair hard enough that some came out and her head was bleeding. Saria was nice to him and he spit in her face and called her a whore. My teacher wouldn’t tell me what a whore was, but he turned really red and put Mallar in the corner. We’re not being nice to him anymore.

“I know it’s hard, Link. Just remember though, that most people only do bad things because they’re lonely and don’t know better. Show him how to be good, alright?”

“Yes ma’am.” I sigh, and change the subject. We’re starting the chapter on the Renaissance in History, and it’s absolutely _fascinating_. The entire thing is one amazing story, complete with a Calamity, Champions, a Hero, and a Princess, but for _real_. We're going to a museum to see the real-licks next week.

I talk until it hurts, combing mom’s hair. She can’t hold a brush well anymore, or lift her hands over her shoulders. Malon taught me two different braids that she uses with her horses’ tails and manes, and I try them both. Mom’s hair is too thin for the twisty-braid, and so I practice the three-strand one until I get it centered and even on her head, and tie the end off with a green ribbon that father gave her while they were courting.

There’s a green ribbon in her hair when the nurse pulls the blanket up to cover her face. Like she’s sleeping. But she’s not sleeping. Not breathing. She stopped breathing hours ago. So did I, but I started again. She didn’t.

“Don’t cry, boy. You’re the man of the house now. Be strong.” My father growls. His phone rings. “Remember Lincoln, I’m counting on you.” His phone rings again. He answers. “Hello, Lady Maud. No, nothing important. I’ll be there shortly.”

He doesn’t even say goodbye. To either of us.

Tetra holds my hand at the funeral, just like I held her hand for Eran’s funeral. Then she has to go back to the palace.

The manor is dark, but I know the way. I’m scared though. Scared and alone. All the adults that I don’t know are talking, which means the adults I do know won’t, because they’re technically all servants and servants don’t speak unless spoken to. I’m scared that if I stay there, I’ll cry again, and my father said to be strong. So I can’t stay there…but I can’t go, either. Korokshire is my _home._ I’m scared that I’ll disappoint him so much he’ll never come back. That I’ll be alone forever.

I’m more scared that I’ll forget. What…what did she look like, again? Not the cold, still, painted thing that they put in the casket, but mom. What did she sound like? Everyone was so quiet. What did she smell like? Not the chemicals and the sterility and too many flowers. I’m scared that if I go into her room, if I move anything, say anything, do anything, be anything, every last trace of her will disappear.

I won’t forget. Korokshire is _mine_ to look after, now. Father said so. He’s not coming back.

I’m alone.

I’m alone.

I’m…alone.

It’s scary, and dark, and lonely and I don’t like it.

I want my _mom_.

The blankets in her room smell like old sweat and antiseptics and dust. Telma should come find me and hug me and make me have a snack and a nap, but she doesn’t come find me curled in my mom’s bed not crying, and she should. She should. That’s not how it’s supposed to go. Telma should come find me.

She doesn’t.

Mom’s bed is hard and itchy and doesn’t smell right. Not that it smelled good, but this is wrong. Everything’s wrong. I need to fix it. I’m the man of the house, now. Telma knows everything about the house. I should find her.

The halls are empty and I can hear my hard, shiny shoes _snick snick snick_ along the hardwood floors, immense in the silence. They hurt my feet. I don’t like them, but they’re the only ones I have that are aperper…appropriate. I want to take them off and throw them down the hall, but it’s creepy when no one is there and I need to find Telma. It’s so quiet. Everyone was in the parlor when I snuck out after father left, but now it’s empty. Empty, empty, empty. There aren’t even any flowers left, though the scent of them lingers in the air. Maybe she’s in her office.

No. Not in her office. Neither is Renado.

No one is in the kitchen, either.

Or the library.

Where is everybody?

Tetra will know. Tetra always knows.

It’s still a bit of a stretch to reach the phone in the main entrance by the grand staircase and elevator. I have to stand on my tip-toes and straighten my spine just to reach the top row of buttons, but that doesn’t matter because there’s no dial tone in the receiver when I put it to my ear. No sound at all. I can’t call her and ask what to do. I can’t stand here forever, either.

My breathing is loud as I put the phone back in its holder, making the quiet hall seem even bigger and emptier than it is. Tetra…Tetra would tell me to start at the furthest point from where I want to end up, like a maze. Mako would say I should choose a path that won’t let anyone move to a place I’ve already checked, like when we play hide-and-seek. They both get better grades than I do, and everybody likes them because they’re smart and funny and pretty and nice. I try, but I’m not as good at it as they are. That doesn’t mean I stop trying, just that I listen to them when they tell me things.

The seasonal workers aren’t in their apartments, but that’s not really surprising. The work doesn’t stop just because my mom died. The world doesn’t stop just because my mom died. Nothing stops just because I did.

I need to keep going. Tetra is waiting for me.

But Sheik and I left Korokshire Manor…has it only been three days ago? It feels like a lifetime. I distinctly remember leaving. Sort of. Do I, really? Those three days have been surreal. Monsters and giant talking trees and insects the size of S.U.V.s aren’t exactly normal. Disjointed fragments of fear and elation and fighting and strangeness and such breathless urgency would make a lot more sense if it has all been some sort of odd dream. The faint whispers I keep hearing…I probably fell asleep in front of the television again, or maybe the cute cat videos playlist on my slate is running as I can’t actually make out any words.

Obviously, I need to lay off the Hateno Codices – at the very least the chapters directly referencing the Calamity – right before bed. Of all of the Hyrule Historia’s recorded low points, the Calamity is definitely one of the worst, probably because there are still a couple Zora alive who remember it. King Sidon might even be willing to give me an interview about it for my final project, which would be fantastic. The less time I have to spend in dry old textbooks, and the more time actually talking to real people, going to real places, the better.

Confident now that the hollow halls are simply a figment of my imagination, I have to wonder if this is the kind of thing Tetra writes about in her dream journal, and if so, why? There are thousands of books on deciphering meaning from dreams, and all they seem to boil down to is a generous “it depends” vagary or an outright laughable “you want to have sex with your mother” foolishness.

Unfortunately, I know which category _this_ dream would fall under. If I remember any of it, I’m never telling a soul. I don’t usually remember my dreams, thankfully, which makes waking up a lot easier. Usually. Today it’s like I’m swimming through cold molasses to even try. Ugh, mornings. I might even ask Gillian to send coffee instead of my regular breakfast tea, just for the bigger hit of caffeine.

“_That’s it, that’s it! Come on, just a…_”

The blankets on mom’s bed smell like old sweat and antiseptics and dust. Telma should come find me and make me have a snack and a nap, but she doesn’t come find me curled in my mom’s bed not crying, and she should. That’s not how it’s supposed to go. Telma should come find me.

”…c_king shit, sorry…_”

That doesn’t sound like Telma either, even though her voice is deep for a woman, it’s not _that_ deep. Not like Grand Master Impa’s, which is deep enough to qualify almost as a tenor, which that voice definitely is. He…

…he said a bad word. Two bad words, really. It makes me laugh, because if I can hear him saying bad words, I’m not all alone by myself. He’s here, too. I just have to find him. Tetra would tell me to start at the furthest point from where I want to end up, but I know where he is. I just have to go there.

Except he’s not where I think he should be. The Chapel is empty and dusty and dirty and full of boxes and bins and wrapped pictures hiding the altars and the Goddess statues from anyone who wants to go to them. The sky is red through the skylights. The floor is scorched by fire. The darkness is eating something that crunches and snaps and keeps on screaming and screaming and screaming.

I close the door.

“_...mit, no, get...”_

My nice shiny shoes go _snick snick snick_ against the hardwood floors as I think, walking back to my room. If he isn’t in the Chapel, and no one is in the Great Hall or the kitchen or the parlor, where could he be? Normally I just have to stop and focus and I can find him, but now all it does is make me hear the rasp of my own breathing, the rush of blood in my veins, the soft hush and burble of my stomach complaining. I don’t know where he is. Who he is.

The landline, old tech that it may be, is more reliable than the networks’ failing reception and overwhelmed processors. It’s down, too, with no dial tone, so I can’t call Tetra to ask her where he could be. They Gossip together, so she might know, but I can’t ask. Putting the receiver back in the cradle, I head down the hall and remember that his room is next to mine. Like mine, the door is unlocked.

Inside is nothing. Nothing at all. Just a dark howling emptiness where the floor and walls should be. The door doesn’t stay open long.

I must still be dreaming.

If that’s the case, I may as well have some fun and let my fantasies play out. It takes me a bit of work to think of which one is the best, but once I do it’s easy to let it happen.

Mom is smiling as she wipes tears from her eyes and Father is so very proud. Tetra looks beautiful in her wedding dress, her clear, alabaster skin glowing with happiness as she takes first Malon’s arm, then mine. Malon is stunning, too, in blue and white to match Tetra’s white and blue, her red hair almost as intricately braided as Kaya’s. He’s...not wearing much aside from the vibrant sacred tattoos on his tawny, sun-bronzed skin, strings of magic beads, and a wrap around his hips in a bright blue and rich violet.

The blue matches my shirt - aside from the white patterns that I can’t really see - and the bits of violet in the white flowers that Tetra holds and Malon has in her hair coordinate with Kaya’s traditional sub-tropical look.

“_…konklavar…”_ The priestess calls, and Tetra tugs, and together we kneel for her Blessing on behalf of the Goddess.

“The Conclave is gathered, let us begin.” Grand Master Impa directs. “Lightkeeper, status report.”

“The fourth is resting after lending her strength to heal my wounds, though she still refuses to grieve. We have received enough foodstuffs to be secure for the next ten days, which could be stretched to twelve if we ration out minimal calories. I’d like to move before then, however. While Truthspeaker’s advice was sound, there are more and more Remnants on the prowl, and our current location is not as secure as I would prefer.” Tye says in the weirdest wedding speech I’ve ever heard.

“Do you have a destination in mind?” Impa asks, and Colin holds up a white silk cushion with the rings on it. I know I have a couple places I’d like to honeymoon, and that – because this is a dream – we can go to all of them. Tour Hyrule’s greatest sights and peoples, together. I pick up the smallest ring and take Tetra’s hand.

“Might I suggest a direction?” The woman who cursed Sheik pipes in, saccharine sweet at first but turning bitter and metallic on the back of the tongue. He smiles tiredly at me before opening his mouth.

“You may not, _yiga_.” He calls, calm and cool and collected. “I call upon the Lord of Justice and Order before the Conclave to witness the transgressions of one Veran Pansori against Lord Lincoln Fitzherbert von Hestu the fourth of Korokshire, and myself, Sheik Kaya Lurelin.” 

For all that hearing his voice again makes me nearly as happy as the sight of my mom’s ring on Tetra’s finger, this dream doesn’t make any sense. Then it disappears, leaving me stranded, and back in the floating dark.

“Oh, how delightfully droll! The wilting violet slut thinks _I’m_ the one who wronged him.” The woman – _Veran_ – laughs.

“_Winyefarse_, decorum.” Impa barks, her elegant gown shimmering into full chain-mail and leather armor. “Truthspeaker, explain yourself.”

“After the last Gossip, my former _domine_ demanded that Veran remove a curse, but he was not specific. He intended for her to lift the tongue-tie that prevented me from speaking unless spoken to, and, while she has, she also interpreted his words to mean the _esclavin_ binding marking me as his Sheik. In removing the _esclavin_ binding, she took no measures to safeguard his sanity or mine, and as a result, he has been trapped in an illusion for the last two days.” Sheik says, sounding calm and cool and collected but for the undertone of rage that flows beneath.

_Two days?!_

“Oh, child. I merely did as he asked as well as what he _wanted_.” She coos, patronizing and insincere.

“That reads perilously close to a lie, you know.” Sheik scolds. “You nearly killed us both.”

“So? That would have satisfied my side of the bargain just as well.” She drawls, and she’s correct. I suck in a breath, appalled at my own foolishness. “Oh, my precious child, you are _free_. Free from the meddling of a weak and powerless Royal Family. Free from your dependence on a perverted Hylian _man_ who is only using you to satisfy his selfish desires. Free to seize control of your destiny and claim your place in the glorious history we are writing!”

“Answer me, in the name of the Fierce Deity, who did you mean by “we”, Veran?” Impa snarls.

“Those loyal to the Eternal, Unchanging God, of course. Through Him we shall once again reign supreme as the most powerful race across the Land!” Veran roars back. “Too long have we suffered at the hands of Hylia’s insatiable children! Too long have we denied and _been _denied the respect we deserve! Well, I say no longer!”

Her words garner a chorus of cheers that drowns out shocked gasps and mute horror from most of those gathered.

“Lightkeeper! Remember Cloyne!” Kaya shouts to be heard over the pandemonium, and I do my best to get to his side. Out of all the Sheikah present in the Gossip, his melody is clearest to me, though it is neither the strongest nor the most attractive. I have to fight to move, through a clamor that I can feel against my skin even if I can’t see anything. Nothing at all.

My reaching fingers find the strands that hold his vibration and I grab on tight, muting the strings but unwilling to let go. They writhe in my grip, twisting and sliding and turning, dragging me through the darkness that is no longer warm and comforting, but cold and ravenous. The wires cut into my palms, shredding my skin, numbing my fingers. I wind them around my wrists, my forearms, kicking at the ones wrapped around my legs that hold me back, hold me still, rough and constricting and not singing a familiar reprise but hissing an antebellum anthem of anger, hunger, fear, and greed.

I hold on tight, and follow along where the bowed strings progress in a fierce and certain crescendo. Flailing my legs more awkwardly than the first time I visited Zora’s Domain keeps the grasping hands from regaining their hold on me, though they pull at my clothing and tear at my skin, wanting to devour everything in their path, unable to be satisfied.

Greedy, their howls send the last our gathered guests fleeing in an unthinking, panicked cacophony, letting me discern the different chords I’ve been entangled in during my own desperate retreat. Hundreds of scales writhe in chorus, while a single voice bellows low and deep, making my ears twitch and bones ache. I have to know what type of monster could make such as sound, and turn back.

I see gaping, tusked maws, slavering as they roar in frustrated ire over lost prey, and a face that could belong to anyone’s father, gazing at me with utter hatred in the depths of his eyes. I dare not turn away from the darkness, staring into the abyss even as I continue to pull myself away, but I am not alone. The very thing I cling to so dearly holds me in return...and reaches beyond me, into the spiraling pit below. 

Sheik’s delicate harmonics soothe their ravening emptiness, and draws me upwards, towards the light. I catch only a glimpse of mummified, flaking, dried skin on weathered bones before the darkness is swallowed by a brilliance that takes my breath away.

I blink. It’s harder to open my eyes again than it should be, but I manage.

Abstract, repeating patterns of ginko leaves in psychedelic colors hurt my eyes, and I close them again against the nauseating swirls. It’s quiet in here, thank the Goddess, and I loosen my grasp on the cords – chords? – tangled in my hand, but don’t let go. Just in case this is another dream waiting to turn into a nightmare of loss and loneliness. My ears ache a little, and my fingers tingle as blood returns to my hands, but otherwise I don’t hurt as much as I’m expecting to after being hit with Veran’s strange, powerful magic.

Someone else is breathing, slow and deep and steady, so I’m not alone.

I’m not alone.

Cracking open one eye, I can feel the grit trying to keep my lashes stuck together, and lift one hand to scrub at my face and clear it of the build-up of…two days, I think, is what Sheik said. That would explain the golden blond, wavy strands of hair I have clenched in my palms. I can’t see him, and roll to crane my head up towards where I can hear that entranced breathing, confirming his presence.

He’s beautiful. Objectively and subjectively. We’re in a bedroom that hasn’t seen a renovation in almost sixty years, or at least one designed to appear that way. Gaudy, and more than a little dizzying with all the various patterns and vibrant colors and conflicting textures. At least the bed is soft beneath my hands as I push myself up to take him in. There’s a lot to take in.

Unbound, his hair flows out behind him in a puddle of thick, liquid gold, still a little damp from a recent shower or bath. He’s sitting cross-legged in a classic pose of meditation, hands forming the Sacred Pyramid held over his solar plexus, the faintly glowing gold bangle hanging off one wrist, Silver Scale over the other, multicolored beads draped through and around his fingers and wrists and arms. A rough cotton towel covers his lap, but he’s otherwise nude, colorful tattoos shimmering but not moving.

Thank Hylia.

A week ago, the unbound hair, the exposed skin, recent cleaning, sharing a bed, and towel to protect the linens, I would have taken as an invitation to first request, then initiate the sex he intentionally provokes. It feels good, and he always sounds a little calmer and more secure afterward…but Veran accused me of using him, and I can’t get that out of my head.

I also can’t forget my failure to please him orally, though I’ve managed to have both Tetra and Malon lock down, gasping and elated. He’s refused every offer and attempt after the first, and so I stopped asking. He said no, on more than one occasion, and I respect that…but I haven’t considered all my options. Not really, and I want him to feel good, too. To know I appreciate him, and want to please him for his own sake, not just increase my own satisfaction.

Perhaps I’ve been going about this all wrong.

My internal clock is all messed up. I don’t know even approximately what time it is, just that the sun is up and can’t be seen from the bedroom windows. I don’t even know what direction the windows open on to, or where I need to go.

In my focus to find a way to Tetra’s side, to protect her in case the unthinkable happens beyond what has already happened, I’ve pushed all other considerations to the side. Pushed everyone away, when they were just trying to help. The wave of guilt that washes over me makes me choke on it.

Two days.

_Two days_.

I can’t get any of that time back, can’t rewind the clock and make different decisions. Stress doesn’t excuse my behavior, though it certainly explains my reactions. I need to do better. Make better choices. Starting with Sheik.

Kaya.

Something between us has shifted, it doesn’t _feel_ right. Unfamiliar and strange. He said the Bond he and the Grand Master worked so hard to restore was destroyed, and I remember what it was like when I first met him. The insistent pull. The constant yearning. The inexplicable desire. I wanted to consume him. Mark him. Possess him, in the most bestial way…and I did. I did, and I enjoyed every moment of it.

The memory of his sweet, velvet heat, the exquisite tightness, his gasping cries urging me on, lingers. I can’t forget them…just like I can’t forget his steadfast companionship and quiet acceptance of and adjustment to everything I demanded of him. The imposed hunger I first noticed in the rhythmic rounds of the Bond has vanished entirely from my perception, leaving only the resonance of desire and friendship.

That I still find him attractive - even arousing - without it, surprises me. Confuses me. What am I drawn to, if I _still _want him, after the coercive litany of the Bond no longer functions? He is not _any_ of the things that have attracted me to anyone else, aside from sincere. Authentic, and intelligent. If that is all it takes for me to like someone, then it is no surprise that I want to be his friend, and have him be a friend of mine. He’s _interesting_, and to me, that’s more attractive than any physical attributes could ever be. Not that the physicality of him practically nude right in front of me hurts. It’s just…different.

What is disconcerting is the amount of people that I _should_ consider, and don’t.

Niko, for instance, at least before he came out. Gonzo, as well. I _have_ had moments where I’ve been attracted to Senza, but not Mako. Never Ruto – who still leaves me feeling vaguely uncomfortable in a way that’s beyond our racial and cultural differences – and I misjudged my attraction to Saria badly enough that nothing will ever come of our relationship but a distantly cool friendship.

They’re all interesting, authentic people, but I’m not attracted to them. The only other things that the people I am attracted to in a more than superficial sense – Tetra, Malon, and Kaya – all have in common is long hair and features that are conventionally beautiful.

I truly hope I’m not actually that shallow, but I can’t prove it. I have no evidence.

Even so, Kaya – who would probably take it as an insult – is beautiful. The evidence is right in front of me. Aside from the colorful markings on his skin, and the bright red of his eyes, his features are delicate, even, well proportioned, and lean without being hard. His marks are interesting – if mildly disturbing only because I know they can move of their own volition – and his eyes, while not beautiful according to the fashion industry’s beauty standards, are beautiful to me. Long lashed and large. Intense.

They stay closed, though, despite my rising anticipation, his breathing slow and steady and even. Too regular to be anything but consciously moderated and deliberately shuttered. He’s either purposefully ignoring me, or very deeply focused indeed.

Either way, I’m hungry. And if I’m hungry he must be as well. He’s not…inept…just extremely limited. Not that I’m a much better cook – I don’t have either the patience or a real reason to be – but I can put together full meals, where he tends to just prepare one thing and call it done. Don’t get me started on the oatmeal. I recognize our packs against the wall by the door and take mine up as contingency, but I think we’re in someone’s home, and if we’re in a home, there should be something in the kitchen. Wherever the kitchen is.

Objective one: seek nourishment. Everything else can wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor boys.   
/checks next chapter which is mostly written but needs about 5 pages of extra crap cut and moved or discarded and then about three pages of rewriting to adjust  
...poor, poor boys. 
> 
> As always, kudos are <3 and comments make me (the first single and third on the track list for Lonely Island's debut album "Incredibad" airing on December 6, 2008).


	11. Life in a Salvador Dali

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, having ingested mind-altering substances would explain a lot.   
Sometimes, reality is just that weird.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: suicidal ideation, masochism  
Warnings: sleep-deprivation induced inability to focus, low self-esteem, magical techno-babble, language (it's an odd chapter and therefore Sheik's POV so you're surely expecting that by now)
> 
> Picks up exactly after chapter 10 left off.

On a scale of circus parade major domo to caged freak-show oddity, it’s been a walk behind the elephant with a bag kind of day. My arms throb to the beat of my heart to prove it, even though the most exercise I’ve had has been checking the perimeter and my wards six too many times to count before being called in to Gossip. The rest of the time I’ve spent staring at the darkest recesses of a spectacular asshole, pulling thick strands of this unfamiliar mind-fuck of illusive spell-casting out of the way, and waiting for the shit to happen.

So yeah, behind the elephant with a bag kind of day.

I can’t exactly just let those strands go _free_, either. They were spun with intent and purpose, parasitically feeding off of his own energy, and will go right back into their corrupt entangling the moment I let go. I learned that much the first time I needed rest, and came back to them smothering his light like the smoke of a hundred forest fires chokes out the sun. Of course, having yanked them out once, if they get back under Link’s conscious mind, pulling them out again will be like popping a sebaceous cyst, complete with infected muck and rotten meat stench oozing out and coating everything in vile putrescence.

Mm. Juicy.

Fuck Veran. Fuck _this_.

Feeling camaraderie for the fucking Witchfinder Extraordinaire is as uncomfortable as swallowing a live hedgehog with a toilet cleanser chaser. Like most discomfort, I ignore it and do what needs to be done anyway. They need to come out. It’s one thing to play little mental tricks on yourself; to get better grades, try harder, gain confidence. It’s another entirely to take those same tricks and warp them, _impose_ them on unsuspecting victims – causing doubt and confusion and reversion – at least without either the Blessing of the Goddesses or a Royal Pardon.

As a Sheik, that pardon is implied. The whole ‘property of a _domine, _no free will_’_ thing. Mucking about with non-consenting minds without that pardon – without even a Teacher directing me in a deliberately staged training exercise – feels a lot like a betrayal of everything a Sheik is. Even without a proper _domine_, without the Bond, without everything that makes a Sheik a Sheik instead of a monster…I have that training. And that’s the whole kit and caboodle reason why I know how to do this - both the casting and the cleansing - and know that there’s an ethical line you _do not cross_.

I’ve been a Sheik – or at least close enough – twice, and a civilian three times, and not only is that line _not_ fucking black and white, _not_ shades of grey, it’s more variegated than all the colors I can see. As his former Sheik, I can see _him_. He hasn’t changed enough for me to forget his patterns and hues over a night spent dropping in and out of nightmares of waking and finding him already still and cold. It was worth opening the drapes and letting in the starlight to check, though, to make sure it’s just hunger, just thirst, just melancholy, just my irrational paranoia, and nothing more severe.

That discernment allows me to find the _saithr_ strands of Veran’s trap and coil them in on themselves, tugging each one clear of the magnificent tapestry his life has culminated in. Compress them with relentless heat and pressure of the fissure, where all the demons of Demise’s army are born. Purify with the incandescent light of Hylia’s devotion. I’ve palmed six of them when the sentient turnip I used to call my _domine_ decides to wake up. He holds still long enough for me to draw out the last, then fucks off to Nayru knows where the _moment_ he can actually rid himself of my presence.

I mean, I knew he wouldn’t stay long once he arose. He’s got a princess or two to rescue, a country to save, the essence of evil to defeat, and all the interpretive jazz stylings that come with being the Hero. I just hoped he’d at least say good bye. Stay sexy, don’t get murdered. Been nice fucking you. Something.

Instead, I don’t even get to see his back as he walks out of my life and into his destiny, too focused on the last persistent strand to do so much as breathe off-pattern and have to start again.

I still don’t know why I didn’t die. Why the breaking of my Bond didn’t kill me outright. Something to ponder, later. Maybe while dancing with another patrol of Lizalfos.

Luckily, the focus on familiar patterns required to attain the depth of concentration needed in removing an illusion I myself did not cast leaves little room for histrionics, and by the time I’ve surfaced enough to actually see what form the cast off leavings have taken, I’m too preoccupied to indulge. I will give Veran this much, for one seduced by the simplicity of the pure hatred that Malice induces in all its victims, her clarity of purpose is intense, and her skill has not diminished for all her loss of anything resembling empathy and compassion.

It took her seconds, mere breaths, to gather, compose, and tether the illusion-form over Link _and _myself. It took me seconds to grasp, minutes to wake, hours to clear my own _saithr_ strands, and I’ve been trained how to do it and am relatively used to despair and loneliness.

With all of the privileges, commitments, and relationships he has just waiting to be muddled, Link’s took _days_.

I have seven standard rainbow hued crystalline Spirit Orbs as long as my small finger and as clear as my conscience to show for it. Three more, murkier but larger, for my portion of that mess. They’ll fuel my magic for a good long while, which is perfect, because now that I’m alone again I need to vacate the premises _post_ _haste_. The electronic lock on this place was as broken as the rest of pretty much all twenty-third century technology is, and I could find no sign of the owners…but there were bananas on the kitchen counter that were still green when I literally dragged Link’s unconscious, dead-weight ass up the stairs.

The Resurgence of the Calamity must have kept them from their anticipated routine. Wow. Imagine that.

I don’t exactly regret breaking in and stealing food, medical supplies, and some of the shampoo they kept in big bottles under the sink, or using one of their three beds and six of their towels. I’d do it again if presented with a similar situation. However, I do know that – now that I’m flying solo again – if or when they return, I’m more likely to be attacked on sight without an obviously invalid Hylian blocking the way. Part of me can’t help but anticipate it with a near suicidal masochistic glee, but part of me knows that I should chase after Link as soon as I get feeling back in my legs. The part of me that craves control over as much of my life as I can garner wins.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t _want _to fight Corruptions and Remnants and other people influenced by the first tendrils of Malice that appear as fear, selfishness, and arrogance. I know that, should I let my _abundant_ fear dictate my actions, grow to desire power for its own sake, or use my knowledge of the shadowed side of life to harm, Malice wins. _Demise_ wins. We don’t always get what we want. Even more rarely do we get what we deserve, thank the Fierce Deity. We don’t get either unless we try.

Therefore, logic dictates that, should I want to uphold my honor and fulfill my vows, I have to try.

He was going to Whittleton Manor, to aid Lady Senza, on the way to rescue Princess Tetra, before starting to deal with the main quest line that a Hero always deals with, and has at least a twenty minute head-start. Maybe as much as an hour. I have to put on clothing, tend to my hair now that it’s mostly dry, pack, find my courage, lock up as much of the house as I can, take down my wards, and catch up. I should probably eat something as well.

It wasn’t as much of a priority earlier when I wasn’t certain removing the illusion would even work. If he’d ever wake up. What would be the point?

Sometimes, hope sucks. I might have been better off without it, but…I wouldn’t trade having met him – and most of the experiences that doing so gave me – for anything. For at least a little while, to some insignificant portion of the population, in a small way, I mattered. I was _useful_. I made him happy. His Sheik. His _shield_.

Not anymore.

Worrying, on the other hand, is apparently extremely useful. Very few of the things I worry about ever actually happen. Only three so far. Eran died. The Resurgence of the Calamity occurred. Link left the moment I stopped being convenient. Hurray for me. Panic attacks, though…not so useful. The things that cause them are in the past, and they do nothing to aid me in the present. Easy to tell yourself, Kaya. Why do you still have them? Hm? Shut. Up. Breathe. One second at a time. Stop that shit.

The sheer weight of the ten new Spirit Orbs is too much for my current configuration to hold, and they’re long enough and big enough that they’ll smack me in the face if I tie them up anyway. No thanks. With yet another mental apology and prayer to Majora for a bit of Her capricious and often insidious luck, I steal from the small family that owns this house once more by unlacing one of dad’s dress shoes and threading the fine briolette gems onto that shoelace, weaving the lot into the end of my braid. The additional weight is negligible, but creates a small pendulum out of my hair, swaying like a desiccated corpse on the end of a noose. Just the way…

No. Stop it. Shut _up_, Kaya. Get up. Put some damn clothes on. You’re fine. Castletown core is only about a five hour walk away, and while your Hylian master needed to guide you like a child outside of urban limits, inside of them, you’re fine. Better off than most, if you’d just _think_ for one Goddess damned moment instead of bleating like a lost lamb looking for a wolf. You’ve got shelter in the form of buildings, a sleeping bag, preserved food that’ll last a skinny spook like you a good week still, water, and, if not friends, then at least allies and conditional associates.

You’re _fine_.

Link, though. Link…is a fucking idiot, running off like that. Hopefully he hasn’t gotten too far. The sun will go down in less than an hour, and as much as he knows the woods and fields, he’d be better off with a bit more guidance than street signs he can’t read once darkness descends and the misplaced confidence being a healthy, rich Hylian asshole lends him. I’m convinced, for instance, that he’s grown rather attached to his handsome face and at least one of his kidneys, and there are people out there that will relieve him of those, his wallet, and his boots if given half a chance.

Move it, Kaya. The paint isn’t getting any dryer for you staring at it.

Ripping up my wards, sending the excess energy into the ground for a quick and dirty dispersion, I resign myself to one more small theft before removing the physical tags, then sealing the doors and what few mechanical locks and latches remain. The spoilage in the refrigerator was minimal thirty hours ago, and the freezer should remain mostly sound for another two or three days as long as it isn’t opened, but some things need to be eaten soon or they _will_ need to be thrown-out later. I may as well eliminate the middle man.

The eggs I’ll leave, since they don’t need to be refrigerated in the first place, and I disposed of the milk without even opening it, but things like the lettuce, bell peppers, and tomatoes on the counter…they’re starting to turn. Not dangerously, but most fancy pants suburbanites leave better quality foodstuffs in their garbage bins on the regular.

Trust me, I know. I’ve _relied_ on it, in fact, when…

“Oh hey, you’re up! Good timing. Supper will be ready in about ten minutes, if I can get you to set the table?” He says, chipper as a cartoon Kokiri with a barrel full of funny mushrooms. My heart jumps up my throat, keeping the undignified squawk trapped in my gut with the sudden flurry of butterflies.

He’s here.

Grasping for something, anything, to stabilize the off kilter world I’ve suddenly found myself in, I find the off-white wall first and lean against it when my knees slowly dissolve like a sugar cube in warm water. Slowly…but thoroughly. Sinking down to the off-white carpet on the second last stair seems like a plan. So does staring at the space between the posts of a wooden banister.

He stayed. He’s _cooking_.

…what the fuck is going on?

“I’m not sure where the plates are, but it might help to look in the cabinets?” He suggests, sparks of apricot concern spiking through his otherwise steady and serene hues as he wields a chef’s knife with precise nonchalance. Stabbing inanimate plant parts with a casual disregard for the blade in his hand. Not once since I fell into his life – into his arms – has he failed to give any blade its proper respect.

I must have fucked up. Somewhere between freeing myself and delving into him, I’ve lost the plot along with whatever vestiges of sanity I may have once possessed. Probably before I even saw the Lizalfos, because fighting three of them and not dying, not even really being injured badly, was too good to be true. Then the unlocked S.U.V. was too good to be true. Finding a house close-by, uninhabited and completely habitable, with the natural-gas tank right fucking full, was too good. Even whatever Link is cooking smells too damn good.

I’m not that fucking lucky.

Euclidian geometry proves it. I’m so dense time has to be bending around me, which is why it seems like days and has probably only been minutes since Veran caught me in her illusion…but I can’t find where. She’s the _Sage of Shadows._ She’s _got_ to be too strong for even a fully trained Sheik with decades of experience to take on directly, and I wasn’t very sneaky in shredding my own inflicted illusions. More desperate and panicky, if I’m completely honest with myself, with a bit of flail thrown in for shits and giggles.

“Sheik?” Putting the knife down next to the cutting board without due care, he turns to actually look at me, and I feel my face heat even as the rush of blood and adrenaline makes me hyperaware of everything. Colors intensify, hyper-saturating in the space of milliseconds. My heart pounds like a pair of spring rabbits. Between one breath and the next I go from smelling dinner to smelling the caramelized fat of sausages laden with garlic, onion, and oregano, the charred skin of potatoes, the fresh crispness of the cucumber he was slicing, and the barest hints of _crème de cacao _from the lady of the house’s shampoo lingering on my hair.

“Got it.” I snap, sliding back up the wall and turning to the various cabinets to search, each footfall echoing in my head over and over and over until I can’t tell if I’m hearing that or the resumed hewing of helpless vegetables. Technically some fruit. Technically a salad at this point.

Forks, then, once I find the plates. Should I use a salad plate? The evening meal is usually the most formal, but he doesn’t stand on formality most of the time. Expects a certain level, yeah, but he’s a fucking Earl. Kind of goes with the territory.

…named after an inept salsa dancer that also happens to be a talking tree, of all things. There’s no way in any of Majora’s games my brain could have come up with _that_ all by its lonesome.

A quick glance tells me that yes, a salad plate would be prudent, if only to contain a portion of the massive spread he’s got nearly ready for service. For Hylia’s sake, there are only two of us. He’s probably ravenous by now, but I’ve been eating in between tending to him and my wards and the Gossip and our gear and my hide. Really, I have…mostly when I’ve been too hungry to concentrate, and only a few bites at a time, but that still counts. I haven’t been ignoring it until my stomach gives up complaining about it like I used to. Mostly because there’s food available, and it _will_ spoil, and I still feel guilty even though I know Link will reimburse them when this is all over.

Or we’ll all be dead and it won’t matter. Either or.

Oh look, plates. And cups. And coffee mugs. No salad plates, so a bowl will have to do. Soup, not cereal. Dinner plates. He gets the dinosaur cup with the faded blue stegosaurus on the side, and I’ll use the standard half liter cup with the concentric umber circles patterned onto it. Now to find cutlery. No spoons needed. Spooning leads to forking, so be safe and use condiments.

Goddesses I could use a good forking right now. Have him pin me down, take his pleasure, and choke me until nothing else matters but the next throbbing breath, the next burning thrust, under his complete control.

I could also use a good feeding, and around a year-long nap. Out of the three, I’m not sure which one I want most, but I know which one I’m going to get as soon as I finish setting the table so my former master can present the fruits of the last hour-ish of his labor for a family style service. It’s enough for a full fucking family, too. He _must_ be ravenous. I get two cork pot holders the moment I return to the kitchen to help bring the food to the table, and he follows with both hot trays, returning for the salad while I fill our cups.

It looks great, and smells better, and I privately savor the way his face spasms a little when he notices his cup. He doesn’t say anything about it, just sits and waves for me to do the same. I say a small prayer of thanks in my head, and wait for him to take what he wants before serving myself from the communally presented dishes. Precisely half the food is left when he leans back and picks up his steak knife to cut into one of the two two-hundred and fifty gram sausages on his plate.

“So, what happened while I was out?” He asks, popping the nearly blackened end of the first sausage into his mouth and chewing as I wonder where the fuck I’m supposed to put the other half of the food. I don’t have a hollow leg like he does. The only place I’m achingly empty will just have to wait to be filled, as he’s not remotely interested. Not even a glimmer of attraction, let alone his usual focused and nearly predatory arousal. I must bore him, now that he’s tried everything he wanted to. Maybe I’m just not pretty enough for him anymore, since that I haven’t been able to bathe or shave as frequently as he’s used to.

Most likely both. I saw the kind of porn he watches. I remember. We’ve been through the checklist like the Saints are supposed to write out for kids on the Solstice Days, and returned a couple times to the things he likes. As is standard in mainstream vanilla violet porn, the wilting partner was always, _always_ clean shaven and more pretty than handsome. Always. Eager and pleasant and passive and boyish. I’m not any of those things right now. He’s waiting for my response, though, so I’d best start talking before he decides he doesn’t care about that, either.

“Not much, really.” I deflect with the truth dependent on perspective. He slept. That’s pretty uneventful. “You’re heavier than you look.” I have to add, the imp of the perverse goading me into teasing him, just a little. He’s no longer my master. The consequences for antagonizing him have shifted, and I need to find out where they stand now that he doesn’t really want or need me in any way, shape, or form. He seems to have a moment of utter shock before he grins at me, full of a glittering happiness like I’ve shot him with Hylia’s own Light Arrows.

What…he’s..._how_…that was an indirect insult. Inappropriate back-talk, even if he can no longer command me. Why is he _happy…_?

Why the ever loving fuck did he stay?

Oh, right. Illusion. A damn fine one. Near perfect, aside from a very few, minor details that I nearly missed. They disappeared as soon as I became aware of them, too, so Veran’s still putting energy into maintaining and modifying it. I have to remember that the more invested I get in it, the more real it will seem, the more strength it gains, the harder it is to break. Not that I’m sure I want to break it. If I make her aware that I want to be thrown to the floor and taken raw, be fucked until I bleed, until I’ve passed out and torn, and then be fucked some more…will he do it? The real Link would never even consider it, so I’m curious.

“You carried me?” One eyebrow climbs his face like a mountain goat, all jumpy and particular, asking for an explanation. I snort, and pick up my own utensils, pondering. If I’m caught, then is his being caught also part of the illusion, or is he actually affected by it? I have no way of knowing, but it’s unlikely.

“Like I could. I just dragged you. Tried to keep your head off the gravel and grass, but I might have knocked it against the stairs a couple times.” Twice that I remember, but I was more concerned with not falling down them myself. If he’s not real, it doesn’t really matter. “Sorry for the rope burn, but I didn’t exactly have a harness to haul you with.”

“Why didn’t you ask whoever lives here for help? I’m sure they’d have been willing to do it, since they’re letting us stay here.” He asks, slicing his potato down the middle and somehow popping the skin to expose its steamy innards.

Ah, damn it. Explaining that part to him, real or not, will be about as much fun as having each hair on my balls pulled out by the roots one at a time. Thank fuck Rusl didn’t even try to get me to wax. Not that I had anything to be proud of at fifteen, but still, It wouldn’t have ended well for anyone.

“I…uh. They weren’t home?” I can’t help cringing back from the oncoming criticism and punishment, even though I don’t regret any of what I’ve done. I’d do it again, to keep him safe. I promised. That’s on me. As are the consequences of my actions. Still doesn’t mean I enjoy getting shit for it. It’s just a little breaking and entering, without the actual breaking part. I didn’t touch anything but the doorknob, and that fell open with the lightest brush of my fingers. I think that counts as burglary, but I’m not certain of the fine print.

“You _broke in_?” He gapes. Eyes wide, mouth open. I could probably...

“Technically the door was open.” I shrug, and slice off a piece of my sausage to put between his lips. “Eat.” I insist, staring at him until he takes the bite and starts chewing. He’s been out of it long enough that he’ll need to recover. Eating until he’s full, then sleeping off a post-feast somnolence should take him until dawn. Hopefully. Then he can go back to the Hero bit. If this is an illusion, and I am trapped, he needs to get on with the Hero bit anyway.

“Sheik, I’m serious. Did you just waltz in here and, and _take over_?” He swallows and sets his knife and fork at five and seven on his plate, telling me my trespassing hasn’t ended the meal, just delayed it long enough for a verbal rebuke. That’s fine. I had good reasons for doing it, if he’d just pay attention to that part instead of the incriminating and mostly illegal part.

“Better that than just leaving you lying in the street.” I can raise my eyebrow just as well as he can, and the fucking mark on my face and being damned spook makes me scarier than he is when I do it. “Or would you rather try making nice with the monsters on patrol?”

“…monsters?” He asks, interest perking up the second he gets the scent. Of course he wants to know about the monsters.

_Heroes._

“Three Lizalfos and a colony of Keese almost immediately after you passed out. Four red Bokoblins early the next morning. A blue one joined them later, but they got bored and wandered off long enough for me to find this place and secure it and move you. The same group has been prowling off and on for the last day and a half, but you already know they can be lured with food and I set a couple traps. You’re out of bomb and ice arrows though, and down to two shock arrows and a quiver of regular ones. I’m out of Deku nuts and lost a throwing knife. Oh, and I used half a bottle of the red potion concentrate in order to not bleed out, so you’re missing that, too.” I list off as sarcastically as I can, and I’ve had two whole long, lonely days to practice.

“What are Lizalfos and…the colony one? Keys?” More questions. I can’t fault him for it. He’s the Hero. If he asks, I have to answer. I promised that, too.

“Um, Lizalfos are…imagine a bipedal carnivorous iguana with the dexterity to wield weapons, but around three and a half meters long, and as bad tempered as a soccer mom asking to speak to the manager. Their tails don’t fall off, though.” What else… “They’re fucking fast, and mean, and ugly as sin.” Just thinking of them makes my shoulder ache with the phantom pain of torn skin and ripped muscle.

“I’m beginning to notice a trend with that part.” He nods, cutting into his second sausage. Already. I know he chews…but it can’t be much. “I’ve yet to find anything of these things that could be called attractive in any sense of the word.”

“Well, Keese aren’t any better. K-E-E-S-E. They’re Corrupted bats, with molted coloring and claws on their tails as well as their limbs, feeding on flesh and blood and carrion. They stink, too.” I grumble, their sickly sweet stench clinging to everything they touch. It took me a minor eternity to scrub it off my hands with the dish soap under the sink, its well-touted grease cutting power the only thing that helped at all.

“…gross.” He comments before cleaning his plate. Mine’s still full though, and he notices. “Sheik, you need to eat.”

“I’ve been talking.” I protest the subtle chiding, and take a bite of potato that’s cooked through, but dry as the underside of a sand seal. I need three mouthfuls of water for each one I take of the starchy tuber, but at least he doesn’t argue further and finishes the rest of the food as I work through my portion methodically. The quiet that falls as he thinks isn’t awkward, and I thank whichever deity is responsible for that much, though he keeps stealing glances at me like he did in the diner the very first day we met.

He hasn’t gotten any better at hiding it.

That date was possibly the most…innocuously chaste date I’ve ever been on. It was also the longest, and least lucrative. Probably the best, all things considered.

“Sheik.” He’s still staring.

“Hm?” I’ve been wool gathering again. My plate is still half full.

“Eat. Please.” It’s not a demand, but it’s not a question either.

“I am.” Slowly. Just because he attacks his food like a full plate offends him doesn’t mean I feel the same way. The heavy sigh he blows out his face hole tells me what he thinks as clearly as if he’d said it with a ten meter tall electronic billboard. I don’t even need to look at him to know how he feels…but I can’t resist taking a peek anyway.

He’s remarkably nice to look at. Sure, I know that my tastes aren’t exactly standard, but he’s not objectionable in any frame of reference. Healthy, young, a bit short, sure, but I’m fucking tiny even for a spook so I actually like that. Less of a gap between us, that way…unlike every other aspect of our respective lives.

He clears the table with remarkable efficiency, but it’s obvious he doesn’t do dishes often. Just tossing everything into the sink together instead of glasses first, cutlery, plates, and then cooking pans. He has to rinse a lot more because of it, just to get the stains off, but he gets it done. Dries his hands, looks at me, and purses his lips in a little frown.

I suppose I’m not nearly as appealing to him now, even though I’m cleaner than he is. I showered. He couldn’t. The sponge bath helped, but…

“Sheik.” He says softly, leaning against the doorframe.

“Hm?” What does he want now? My plate? There’s still food on it, so that can’t be it.

“How long have you been awake?”

“I slept last night.” I think. For a bit, anyway.

“How much?”

“Enough.” Enough not to break down like fractions, at least. My answer doesn’t satisfy him. His limp arm over my side wasn’t satisfying either, so we’re even. He sighs again, and pulls out a chair with a stuffed Blupee on it to sit close enough that our knees brush.

“Here, let me.” He murmurs, and takes my fork from my suddenly lax fingers to cut another bite of sausage from my now cold plate. “Open up.” He waves it in front of my face.

“If you airplane that shit I’ll be forced to…” I can’t talk around my mouthful, and breathe deeply so I don’t feel quite so much like spitting it back in his face. I did the same thing to him though, so I can’t complain without being a hypocrite.

It might be worth it anyway.

“Chew, Sheik.” He urges, cutting the next piece before I can respond. Even cold, it’s good. Too good. All of this. All of him. Goddesses, why does this illusion have to be everything I’ve never dared to want? A home. A place to belong. Food enough to eat. A comfortable place to sleep. No one hurting me. One person caring, or at least pretending to. I have to swallow a little more thickly than a bite of sausage calls for. “Hey, hey, come on.” He drops the knife to the table and lifts his hand to the unmarked side of my face. It’s so warm.

Then he leans in and kisses me...but he doesn’t want me.

I can see it. Can’t see it. Can see it…can’t. It’s not there. He doesn’t want me, not in the only way I’ve ever been wanted since Eran died. He doesn’t. There’s no hunger, no possessiveness, no dominance, no aggression tinting his hues anywhere. They’re pure and crisp and clean. I’ve seen this shit from him before, though. With Princess Tetra, Lady Malon, and even Lord Niko. There’s no way this is _anything_ but an illusion. I am _not this fucking lucky_. Pinching myself doesn’t work. Interrupting with the normal things I’ve used to get myself out of a nightmare doesn’t work. Even shocking myself on the inner thigh with the lightest Fury I can manage does less than dick all.

He doesn’t even flicker, doesn’t stop, doesn’t waver at all. Not at all.

He kisses me again, the complex rose rising to flood his patterns thick enough to smell as well as see. I breathe him in and wonder when I became so weak as to not resist what I know to be an illusion, no matter how well woven. It has to be, because he can’t do this. He _can’t_. No matter how badly I want it. It’s impossible…but…

Is it wrong to want to be cared for? Cherished?

Love without truth is hypocrisy, so…yes. It’s wrong if it’s not sincere. In a false world, false circumstances, false partner…the only thing I can be certain of is myself. And I want this, desperately.

Even if it’s not real. Of that wanting, I’m certain. I _want_ him to kiss me like I’m something precious to him. Tender. Sweet.

I stop resisting the next time his lips brush against mine. Don’t protest leaving a dirty plate still a quarter covered with food on the table, and follow him upstairs willing to pretend that this is real, and that I can be loved.

It’s not the first time I pray that I won’t wake up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for being 2 hours later than my normal posting time. Pandemic precautions and non-potable water in the industrial hospital kitchen where I work make for interesting times.  
At least if my immune-suppressed self catches it, I'll have more time to write. /shrug
> 
> On that note - I've started making point-notes for chapter 29, am fleshing out chapter 17, and currently editing chapters 12 and 13, so hopefully I'll be able to put how many chapters this beast will officially end up being soon!
> 
> A huge, huge thank you to everyone who's reading. A massive thank you to the people who've left kudos. A gargantuan thank you to everyone who comments, your responses give me life!


	12. What You Wish For

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Link needs a bath, and an update, and wants a particularly involved snuggle.  
Sheik gives him what he needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: none \o/ go me  
Warnings: nudity, idiots, wish fulfillment, arguments, Sheik's idea of flirting, the Gay ™, unresolved issues rearing their ugly heads, Link saying three little words

The only things that Tetra, Malon, and Kaya all have in common are long hair, features that are conventionally beautiful, blinding intelligence, and a genuine desire to somehow make the world a better place…just from drastically different perspectives. Tetra has been trained from birth to think about how each of her actions will affect not only everyone she knows, but the public perception of the Royal Family and through them, Hyrule itself. Malon loves animals of all types, with a soft spot for horses and big dog breeds. Kaya notices the invisible, the forgotten, and gives them not just recognition, but validation.

I’m stuck between all of them, metaphorically speaking. Literally, I’m neck deep in hot water in a stranger’s home that Sheik _broke into_ so he would have someplace safe to keep my unconscious body. For two days. No wonder I was so hungry. Now I’m sore, and sweaty, and the bath tub filled with both water and bubbles should be taking care of both of those things. The sweat washes off easily enough, but two days of complete inactivity have left the muscles that I was pushing to their limits to stiffen up and start aching all over again. It’s not the first time I’ve strained myself, though it is the first time I haven’t had those strains expertly tended to within minutes of it happening.

It’s been long enough that I don’t even get to enjoy the satisfaction of a good work out, and instead, simply ache. Even if I don’t remember it in my head, my body does, and I should listen to its complaints just so I know how to go about helping myself recover. The bath helps. The food helps. Sheik – carefully tending to my strained and stiff muscles – helps. He _helps_. Whether it’s keeping me safe or sitting with me at the table for a meal, he helps, although he wasn’t eating – again – just watching me. I can’t help watching him in return, or notice the way he moves. His marked skin.

I remember, ages ago, when Ruto, Tetra, Gonzo and I went swimming in East Reservoir Lake, where most of the Zora athletes, fall-climbers, and professional porters train. There was a section corded off with buoys that I thought was for children. So did our nannies, and so we all splashed into one of the strongest surface currents in all of Zora’s Domain. Ruto managed to grab Tetra before she had more than her foot in the water, and Gonzo was a cucco and had grabbed onto the cord before even jumping in, so he could be pulled out easily.

I was swept downstream too fast to even yell for help before everyone was too far away to hear me anyway.

I remember kicking and paddling for all I was worth to try and get back to them, but I hadn’t even learned how to do a front crawl yet, so it was pretty useless against a current that even the most athletic Zora couldn’t fight. I figured that much out eventually, but not before I had worked myself to exhaustion. My arms felt like overcooked noodles, and my legs ached, and I was tired. Too tired to fight, too tired to think, too tired to do anything but let the current carry me where it would. All I could do was try to keep my head above water and hope someone came before that changed.

Someone did come, sort of. King Sidon cleared the Reservoir and changed the water patterns to let three of the guards set up a net to catch me. The water pushed me so hard into the ropes that they cut into my skin and muscle deeply enough that I still have a faint scar on the back of my right hip. It wasn’t bad enough to cut the muscle through to bone, but it was bad.

I remember what that kind of injury looks like, even after being cleaned and closed with red potion. They used red potion on mine, too, and then made me drink nearly a liter of the stuff once the skin had closed again to heal the last of the damage.

“Sheik, wait.” I call to keep him from leaving the bathroom now that he’s brought fresh towels, cast his recovery spells, and re-heated the water for me to soak in. Using his Silver Scale to first fill the tub, and then his magic – a full, sonorous, gong-like spell – to use a fire spell I’m unfamiliar with. It’s stronger than the simple elemental conjuration every student learns in grade two, that’s for sure.

“Hm?” He stops and half turns, shirt in one hand and the doorframe in the other, tattoos on full display. Just hearing him speak fills me with joy, even if he isn’t up to his usual sharp witted responses. Yet. We’ll get there, now that he can speak his mind and tell me everything I need to know. Like where Tetra is. Eventually.

Not now. Not when I can see his ribs as clearly as his tattoos and the light is making the shadows under his eyes even worse. Now, he needs to rest, desperately, and won’t until I do.

I just yawned, and scratched at the dried sweat making me itch, and that was enough for him to herd me into the bathroom instead of the bedroom as I intended.

“Wash my back?” I ask. Not because I need help, but in the hope that he’ll let me return the favor. He said he used half a bottle of the red potion concentrate. That there were Lizalfos. The marks on his shoulder coincide with his abbreviated story, and make me want to know the full version. Not just because I like stories, but because there’s crucial information there that I need to know.

“Seriously?” Exhaustion rings loud and clear in his voice, and I reevaluate my priorities.

“Either that, or go back downstairs and finish your meal.” He didn’t finish his supper, and if I know anything about him at all, he hasn’t been eating enough while I was dreaming. Even the amount of magic he’s just used was barely covered by what he did eat. He stares at me, resting his head against his hand on the door frame, and I stare right back at him. The plucked strings of his minor chords shift from a fifth to an augmented fifth and back before he makes a decision.

“Fine. Move forward a bit.” It’s not the option I was hoping he’d choose, but at the same time, I’m not surprised. He seems to understand that I like being touched, and touching, and is willing to accommodate me to the point where I have to wonder if he likes it as well. The splash of a washcloth hitting the water, the droplets falling back into the tub as it’s lifted, and the moist dripping as it’s wrung out precede his touch on my shoulders, and I lean into the contact with a little more enthusiasm than he expects.

“Mm, harder.” I request, and tilt my chin down to show him more of my back. He complies, and while he works the fabric over my skin, massaging as much as cleaning, I tackle my face, neck, and ears. I need a razor for the scruff on my chin and jaw, but that will have to wait until morning when I can see better. The skylight helps, but the light is fading too quickly for the leisurely bath I’d like to have, especially since I want to make sure he’s clean, too. That he’s okay. I know he’s so tired that he’s numb, because no matter how hard I tug on the Bond I get nothing in response. Bath time will probably have to be followed by bed time at this rate. If I time it right, it will.

I don’t know how else to tell him I value him aside from taking him to bed. Kahti’s observation has proven accurate time and time again, and I’m at a loss otherwise. He’s always with me, always so serious, so honest, that quality time is a given. He doesn’t like receiving gifts, and I know now that they make him feel indebted to the giver far beyond the actual value of the gift itself. Acts of service confuse him and make him feel guilty or annoyed or invalidated. He panics at anything remotely resembling words of affirmation, and that leaves physical touch, of which he’s almost as skittish of as words unless that touch is very specifically and obviously sexual in nature.

Then, he’s willing to let me get up close and personal. Every time. No matter what else is going on, and that’s not normal. Not healthy. No two people are always, perfectly, entirely synchronized for sexual compatibility. But I don’t know what else to do. If words of affirmation cause him anxiety, asking him to tell me what he wants, what he likes, what he is even remotely partial to causes a complete shut-down. He just stops responding, and that’s the last thing I want.

I just want him to know…

“There, all clean.” His voice is as soft as his touch, but I still feel its dawning absence.

“Wait.” My voice is harsher than his was from not speaking for so long, but no louder. “Just...hold on a minute.” I ask, and when he doesn’t move, find the shampoo and tend to my hair as quickly as I can, dunking my head underwater to rinse and coming back up with a gasp to find he has a towel ready and waiting for me to dry off.

Almost, but not yet.

“Leave it on the counter, please.” Pushing my hair back to keep it from dripping into my face, I slide back to lean against the back of the tub and reach out an arm. “Come here. Join me.”

“I…my Lord, what…”

“Link. Please, Sheik. My name is Link.” Goddess, it’s an actual, physical pain to have to ask that of him. He knows I hate the formality of my title, the distance it puts between us, but even when I try again to tug on our Bond for any kind of response I get absolutely nothing.

“And mine is Kaya.” He says. “I am not your Sheik any longer, my Lord. You are still a lord.”

Oh.

_OH._

Well, damn. That explains a _lot_. Like why I can’t coerce him into the bath with me, why he could disobey a direct order. Why he can make his own decisions, even if that means he decisions are ones that I don’t like. They’re his.

_Good_.

“Kaya, come. Join me.” I urge, knowing now what I want to do. What we’re both free to do, if he wants to.

“I had a bath earlier, thank you. Another will just get my hair wet again.” He declines, shaking his head.

“I want to return the favor. Make sure you’re _really_ clean.” I hint, and he chokes out a laugh.

“Hiding two hundred rupees in there somewhere?” Even though his tone is light and his words are playful, he’s serious. I thought we’d gotten over this.

“No? I mean, I thought you’d be…I don’t know, willing?” He’s always been willing before.

“Now that I’m no longer employed in a lifetime position, I’ve got to make money somehow.” He shrugs. “Two hundred up front, you bring the lube, no bareback, no kissing.”

“I haven’t taken you off the payroll...” I return, chest aching, keen rising in the back of my throat. I thought we were making progress. That he came to my bed willingly and with the same enthusiasm I had. “…and I don’t intend to, but I thought…I thought we were…”

“Lovers?” He snorts, denying me that fantasy.

“Yeah. Yes.” Oh, Goddess, has he doubted me the entire time? I’ve spilled most of my deepest secrets in front of him…but not all of them. Not all. I’m beginning to suspect he _is _a secret.

“You paid for my service as a Sheik, for me to be the perfect companion. I did my duty.” The bald statement hurts, cutting me to the quick. “No one could ever really love me.” That one doesn’t bother with cutting. It just reaches in and tears my heart out of my ribcage directly.

“Oh, Kaya…” I gasp, but he’s already gone. Fled from the bathroom entirely, towel forgotten on the floor. I slosh some water out in standing, and drip all the way down the hall, following his retreating footsteps. I don’t know where he’s going, just that I need to…

…to…

I need to tell him the truth. Show him. Prove…_admit_ the truth to myself, so I can prove myself to him. To the one person I know Sees the truth in all its ugly horror, and all its brilliant glory. Tetra is too politically astute. Malon is too much of an idealist. Niko is too focused on environmental issues to deal with people. Telma is too immersed in other people’s expectations. I know I’m too much of a sap to be impartial – my heart too soft – and I’m partial to having him in my life and as happy as possible. I’m partial to _him_.

Goddess _damn it_.

So I give chase, tracking his hurried footsteps back to the bedroom I woke up in, catching him just inside the door, seizing his arm and hauling him around to face me. He grunts in pain, confirming that his shoulder is still hurting him, and I regret grabbing him like that but not enough to let go. Not until he understands. He keeps his eyes averted, face down to hide his expression from me, but I can hear the hitch of his breathing, the pounding of his heart, feel the tension in his slight frame.

I’ve been sparring long enough to know when he decides to move, and can anticipate the direction from the way his foot turns, his shoulder angles, and his stomach – concave and clearly denoting the top of each hip, the bottom of his ribs – tenses. Blocking him instinctively has me stepping into the lunge and between his knees to use what little mass he has and pin him against the dresser.

“Din dammit, let me go!” He hisses like an angry cat, arching his back, hands crooking into claws.

“Where?” I ask, honestly curious. If there are monsters outside, if he put in all of that work to make this house a safe space for me to recover, then where is he planning on going?

“Let me go!” He shoves at my chest, and I take a step back both to absorb the impact and get close enough to close the door without taking my eyes off of him.

“Better?” Leaning on the door takes me that much further away from him, and I watch him do the little self-soothing rituals he’s done so many times before. The breath regulation, the tossing of his braid, the rubbing his thighs, the biting of the inside of his lip. Some of them I’ve even helped him with. It’s not the worst panic attack I’ve witnessed him have, not by a long shot. I’m not even certain it qualifies. It certainly doesn’t take him long to work through it.

The Bond is silent throughout, no matter how hard I pull.

“This isn’t real. Fuck, this is not happening.” I hear him whispering, and it takes me a moment to realize he’s talking to himself. Aloud. And not just rubbing his thighs, but pinching them as well. Hard. Hard enough to bruise, I’d wager.

“Kaya.” I call, using his name, hoping to distract him from whatever is happening in his head.

“What?!” He snaps back, finally lifting his eyes to meet mine. They’re glowing softly in the dimming light, telling me he’s awfully close to casting something, if not already doing so...and damp. Best to tread lightly, then, and stick to more mundane means of the nurture he clearly needs.

“Will you let me look at your shoulder? It doesn’t look like it’s completely healed, but I can’t tell from here and without better lighting.”

“It’s fine.” Grinding the words between his teeth into a smile that’s more than half-snarl, he takes a step further away from me, automatically protecting the injured area. The weakness. Fine doesn’t mean good.

“Does it hurt?” I cross my arms in front of my chest and remember I’m naked just in time to resist dropping my hands to cover the essentials. It’s not like he hasn’t seen me naked before – and expressed his approval – and the vulnerability of my nudity to his partial dress will give him a little more confidence. I hope.

“…a bit. I can handle it.” He mutters after a terse moment of silence.

“Did you drink any of the red potion?” Guiding him through self-care beyond mere survival seems to be becoming a habit, and I have a moment of frustration before remembering that mere survival isn’t that meager when it’s all you can manage. Red potion is expensive and risky, two things that he couldn’t afford, before. Better to go to a doctor and be stitched up so all your pieces align than just pour and hope for the best. Even then, painkillers are also expensive, and highly addictive, and he wouldn’t have risked that even if he’d had the opportunity. I know that much about him.

“No, just used it to close the wound.” He’s relaxing, which is good, but it’s getting darker by the minute, so I need to press for information before I can’t see where I’m going, let alone how bad it still is.

“How deep was it?”

“Torn the skin clear through, and damaged but didn’t sever any muscles. I could still move everything before I used the potion, though it did hurt badly enough that I passed out taking off my jacket.” He admits, and I have to resist the urge to yell at him almost as much as I had to resist the urge to make him sit at the table until he finished his food. Neither would be productive, but I still feel like it would help.

“May I see?” Keeping him feeling like he’s in control is more difficult than Tetra makes it seem. I’m not nearly as practiced, and fall back on leading questions to do it. Fortunately, he’s tired enough not to notice, and trusts me enough to let me at his back even when he’s still skittish.

I don’t need to ask which shoulder, the smooth tawny skin molted and warm to the touch on his left side. He flinches when I touch it, but submits to being poked and prodded as gently as I can manage while still figuring out how severe the damage is.

“Well?” His soft query makes me realize I’ve been holding his shoulders and staring at his skin longer than a physical assessment calls for.

“It’s still bleeding inside, the bruises are starting to show.” I tell him, and run a finger along one of the slightly darker patches that crosses the shoulder blade. Thankfully, all of the discolored stripes run away from his spine. “I’m going to mix up some more of the red potion, and you’re going to drink it.” As much as I want him to feel secure, I’m going to have to insist on it. Making sure he’s okay is more important than either of our prides.

“What if you need it, later?” He asks me, craning his head back and up to look at me, uncertainty so obvious in his posture even I can see it.

“What are you minoring in, again?” I return. “You can patch me up just as well.”

“Only if I’m right there, and have the energy!” He protests.

“So be there.” I return, brushing my fingers against the tiny Triforce mark at the base of his skull, just underneath where his hair wrap would cover if he was wearing it. “And eat properly. Sleep. Stop shorting yourself. We have enough.”

“Right now we do, but tomorrow you’ll…”

“Be fine.” I insist, flattening my hand to pull him close with gentle pressure on the back of his neck. His hair smells like cocoa, and I can’t help inhaling deeply, savoring the hint of sweetness along with his natural salty-ozone scent. “I need you to be fine, too.” Pulling away from him is one of the hardest things I’ve had to do since I woke up in an unfamiliar bed, but isn’t as impossible as it would have been yester…three days ago. Three days before _that_ was the last time I got to touch him intimately, and the first time that I think could be counted as making love and not just having sex.

No wonder he’s feeling insecure enough to reach out and take my hand when I turn. I was going to mix the red potion, but there’s no reason I have to leave him behind while I do it. If nothing else, I’d appreciate a bit of light while I measure. For the first time since I woke to the sky’s discordant wailing I can feel a smile forming on my face, and it’s all because of him…because he’s cute. The blush I want blossoms across the bridge of his nose as I lift his hand to kiss his knuckles and his mouth opens and closes a few times before that same blush deepens and spreads to cover most of his face.

“Be right back.” I promise, and get a nod in return. There’s just barely enough light for me to not hesitate on unfamiliar stairs as I go and dig through the pockets on my pack to find the bottle I need. Half of one is empty…and dark brown stains in the shape of fingerprints have dried into the fabric. I stare at that further evidence of his injuries for one skipped heartbeat, and bring the bottle of concentrate to the kitchen so I can find a measuring cup and get the ratio right.

Stirring the mixture for even dispersion in the glass he used, the metal spoon rings against the sides and something outside blows a low, squat, sustained bugle of alarm, almost like the air-raid sirens of Lorule’s last internal war. It sends a shiver down my spine and gets me to stick to the walls as I creep back towards the bedroom where Sheik has put his undershirt back on and is wrapping his pant hem to his legs.

“What was that?” I ask, handing over the glass of potion. I hate not knowing what’s going on.

“Bokoblin lookout spotted something. Sounded close.” He replies, and chugs the potion without so much as a grimace as to the taste. It smells like rotten meat and vinegar, so I can’t imagine it tastes much better. “I’ll check it out. Stay here.”

“I’m coming with you. Where are my boots?” I didn’t notice them when I went downstairs, though I did see the little paper charms he has on all the doors and windows.

“No. Stay here.” Adamant, he tucks the ends of the ties on his legs in and pulls on my jacket, leaving his hair tucked in down the back of it. “I’ll be right back, I swear. Stay safe.”

“You can’t be serious! Sheik, come on.” I follow him to the front door and search for my boots while he puts his on and picks up his spear. My sword, shield, and bow are right next to it. My bag is by the side door. That leaves one place for my boots to be, but when I straighten up to go grab them he snags my arm and pulls.

Hard.

“Link, stay here.” He sighs. “You’re a liability right now. You can’t see shit, spent the last two days flat on your back unconscious, haven’t really slept, haven’t really eaten, and haven’t been doing perimeter checks every six hours for the last thirty. You don’t know the terrain.”

“But…” I want to argue, but I can’t. He’s right.

“I promise, I’m just going to find out what made the Bokoblin raise an alarm. I’m not the one with a Hero complex here.” He chuckles softly, tilting his head to smirk at me, eyes glowing warmly. “That’s your psychosis, not mine, and I’m not trading.”

“Fine. You have ten minutes.” I can’t hear the grunting and snorting that I’ve come to associate with a Bokoblin camp no matter how hard I strain. If he can’t find them in that time, they’re far enough away that we can worry about it in the morning.

“Forty.” He counters. “The sun will have set by then, and I’ll be able to get close enough for some real reconnaissance. See how many there are, what weapons they have, what kind of supplies they’re working with.”

“Don’t engage.” I caution, unable to really do anything else now that he doesn’t have to obey me. The compromise takes longer, and that frustrates me, but hearing him speak, _having _him speak, is so much better in the long run. We can collaborate…like a Sheik was originally supposed to do. To advise and provide an alternative viewpoint, but still be capable of acting on their own.

“Yessir.” He mocks a salute. “Any other obvious advice? Don’t run with scissors, maybe?”

“Don’t be a smartass.” I frown.

“That counts. Thanks, tips.” Rolling his eyes as he turns to go has me being the one to catch his hand and hold on. He gives me the courtesy of waiting, returning the favor from before.

“I know you should go, and are the best man for the job. I just wish there was some way you could come back the second you’re done.” I admit, the compromise the best I can come up with.

“You gonna give me a reason to come back quickly, then?” He drawls, tilting his chin down, eyes up, and drawing his hands behind his back in a pose of innocence…aside from the spear he still holds, and the magic crackling around him as he pulls in aether for easy access. Teasing me in an attempt to provoke a response, most likely a kiss.

“Do you want me to?” Before, when that insidious siren song echoed all through his presence, I wouldn’t have hesitated. I could tell. I knew. Now, as rich, thrumming harmonics rise and ebb and rise again, I can’t tell if he’s purposefully baiting me or if it’s just a residual response designed to placate and distract.

“Depends what you’re offering.” He smirks, eyes dropping. Reminding me that in addition to my boots, pants would be good. And a shirt. And socks. And underwear…pretty much any clothing at all, since I’m not wearing any.

“I’m offering this.” I give in, and take the two steps I need to press him against the wall and tilt his chin up. Make him look me in the eye. “I appreciate you, enjoy you, want you, and love you. So come back as quickly as you can.” Sealing my words with a kiss, my hands slide down his jaw, neck, shoulders, and come to rest on his growing biceps. He’s getting stronger. Strong enough to push me away.

“Oh, fuck me.” He complains. It’s not a request. At least, not at the moment. He’s not running, though, just kicking up the carpet in the entryway and haphazardly throwing all the shoes into the closet. The moment the space is clear he drops to his knees and pulls his marker from his right cargo pocket. After seeing what he could do in the mall with just Senza’s eyeliner, I step back and let him work.

How he manages to draw perfectly concentric circles without a guide or a compass is impressive enough. That he can balance a trio of them, the blockish text of one of the ancient languages he’s been studying, and a series of perfectly distributed blossoms that are hauntingly familiar within those circles in less than five minutes is astounding. I watch the whole process unfold, fascinated by the sure strokes and the speed of execution as much as the precision and elegance of the script. I know he’s finished when he stands carefully so as not to accidentally disturb any of the lines and breathes out a sigh.

“That should do it.” He nods, checking the marks that I have trouble deciphering in the last of the fading twilight. “Don’t touch anything, please.” Picking up his spear once more, he puts his hand on the doorknob. “Including yourself.” He grins. “Wouldn’t want to leave me…unfulfilled.”

“I would never.” I promise, and as soon as the door closes behind him I turn away and go back to the bedroom to find something to wear. The nights still get awfully chilly, especially in a strange place when you’re completely alone in the dark with only the howls of monsters to keep you company.

I can’t even manage to walk down the hall without trailing my hand along the wall to find my way, so there’s no possible way I’d be able to stalk Bokoblins on a starless night. Instead, I fumble cautiously to the base of the stairs and wait. With no clocks, no electricity, no way to tell time, I don’t know how long he’s been gone. It already feels like forever.

I wait, counting my heartbeats, listening for anything that might be happening outside. The wind howls. Somewhere, a voice, too faint to make out species, let alone intelligence. A door. A barking dog. Some sort of insect crawling close by. The laminate floor sticking to my skin as I shift, the cool wall at my back making me wish I’d bothered to find a shirt as well, or at least take the throw on the bed with me. Too far, too dark, to go now. The skittering of the insect is covered by a shifting gurgle from my stomach as supper moves further along my digestive tract.

It’s definitely more than forty minutes. Even if my resting heart-rate isn’t as restful as my lack of activity would suggest, five thousand beats is double Sheik’s allotted time. The moon’s ascension means I can find the window over the kitchen sink instead of trying to not step on the lines and open the front door. My bare feet are louder on the laminate than on the linoleum. The insect has stopped moving. My blood rushes in my ears, freshly cleaned and listening. Waiting.

A distant crash, the dull bark of an explosion, and screeching have me hopping up on the counter to try and figure out which area the reverberations are coming from, but the echo and answer down hollow city streets make it impossible to pinpoint more than a vague sense of direction. There’s nothing I can do but wait for the sounds to stop and my heart to slow.

I hate waiting. I hate it even more when I should be doing something to help, but can’t really do anything useful at all. Sheik was right. Right now, at best, I can just stay out of the way.

The descending diatonic scale that resonates from the front door is followed by a faint chime and a light show I don’t think I’ll soon forget. Afterimages flicker of individual filaments coalescing into a familiar whole, and the pop of effort as Sheik calls forth the same light in his palm as he used in the elevator shaft is reminiscent of the explosion that got my heart going double-time in the first place.

“Hey.” He greets. “You should be sleeping.” He doesn’t have his spear.

“You should as well.” He does have something much better, and I slide off the counter to take the candles, matches, and emergency flares from him so he can unlace his boots. Instead of bending to do that, he sways on his feet, and I have just enough time to put the boxes down before his knees give out.

“Yeah…yeah, I probably should.” Slumped against the front door, smelling lightly of grass and dew and magic, he laughs. “Farore, I probably _can_.”

I end up helping him with his boots, and half support, half stabilize him as he staggers up the staircase and towards the bed. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was drunk, but he’s never needed alcohol before to loosen his inhibitions and say exactly what he means. He’s not one to lie, either, and so I listen to his chronological retelling of the night’s events with growing pride and am comforted. I should have known Senza wouldn’t take a silly thing like the Calamity lying down.

“You’ve got some incredible friends, Lord Spoon.” He finishes as I loosely fold his pants to leave them on the dresser, already half asleep. If the pet name wasn’t enough of a clue as to what he wants, even though he hasn’t said it, the raised arms and grabby hand not holding the ball of light is.

“Get under the covers.” I remind him, and as he groans and flops around I slide into my usual side and wait for him to settle against me. He lets the light wink out of existence and moves my arm from against his stomach to hold it with both hands around his waist a contented sigh, falling asleep between one breath and the next.

I follow soon after, the scent of his hair and the perfumed shampoo mingling into something sweet, and rich, and probably bad for me in the long run. Right now, though, it’s exactly what I need.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late last update, early this one.  
Ended up completely re-writing chapter 24 for proprietary reasons, but closing in on actually finishing Unleavened. I know, I know, I hear you. "Enough with the angst, already." Gotcha.   
How I go about the third part of The Calamity is Calling is now up for discussion, so...what are you hoping to see? More angst? (yes of course, but less maybe?) More smexytimes? More villain exposition? MagiCaL TeChnO-BaBble? Some god-forsaken idea of where I'm going with this? (hahahanope)  
Tell me in the comments.
> 
> Also - Crumbs will have more installments from other characters points of view, but the main arc of The Calamity is Calling with remain primarily told from Link and Sheik's.


	13. In the Thick of It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We kindly ask you to refrain from attempting to queue for the next main scenario quest at this point in time. Your item level and experience are insufficient for the instanced area.  
AKA side quest time \o/

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoooooooboy.  
Trigger Warnings: Violence. Injury. Gore. Blood.  
Warnings: Language, badly written fight scenes are bad, dead things, racism, discrimination, mild homophobia, theft, foreshadowing, anxiety, magical technobabble, uh...did I say language? Because language. Sheik's chapters mean there will be language, so please look forward to it.
> 
> As always - if I missed one, please tell me.

Startling awake makes Link’s arm tighten around my middle, even though he doesn’t do more than an instinctive clutching grab to my hip and lets out a grumpy little mumble which I don’t catch more than a quarter of. It somehow involves both Lady Malon and sticky sand pudding, or I misheard even that much. Listening to him talk sleep-nonsense helps settle my racing heart, and reminds me I’m safe and here and he won’t ever hurt me on purpose.

That means I’m absolutely fucked, given his engagement and the Resurgence of the Calamity. I’m also too tired to care. Some muttering over there being enough for an army of invisible ducks has me chuckling softly and relaxing. Enjoying the warmth, even if I can’t fall asleep again immediately. I breathe, feel his chest rise and fall and rise against my back, listening to _him_ breathe and murmur out his imagination. The absurdity of his dreams chase the ghosts of mine away soon enough, and the faint pressure of him actively latching on to me lets me sink back into Thrice blessed sleep. He’s so warm…

“As adorable as this is, pillow biter, the sun came up forever ago.” A cheerful alto shatters my first good rest in days like some western Gerudo shatter plates at weddings…with shouting, stomping, flailing and far too much enthusiasm. I reach for the knives that are still strapped in their bandolier at the sides of my pants – which are across the room – before my brain catches up to my paranoia and identifies the intruder and the lack of lingering warmth in the sheets.

“Lady Senza?” I groan, rolling to bury my face in the pillow that I wasn’t biting, fuck you very much. This time. Maybe cuddling. Definitely clutching. Damn it. Goddesses, another hour would have been nice. So would be having a reason to bite my pillow. Saints and Sages, even having a pillow should make me feel spoiled, but instead all I want is to return to that nice, dark, dreamless state of pure rest.

“The one and only.” She chirps, just like the returning songbirds outside. I never should have told her the address of this place. Then I could have _slept_.

“Thank Din there’s only one of you.” I grumble, and resist the urge to flip her a bird of my own.

“Aw, you know you missed me.” She coos, flinging open the curtains and letting the sunlight stab into my brain, the sadistic wench.

“I’ll aim better next time.” Maybe if I ignore her, she’ll go away…and where did Lord About-Face go? If he keeps one-eightying on me I might as well have my day pass from the funny farm revoked and head straight back to Ikana where people are a little more consistent. At least there I don’t have to second guess anyone’s tie-dye nuanced motives, since survival mechanisms are pretty simple to spot.

“I’m touched.” She drawls, quickly organizing the clothes Link peeled off me last night into some semblance of order. Fuck it all and the cow it rode in on, I might as well get up. 

“In the head.” I grumble. Rolling over to sit up slides the blanket down to my hips, and I take the time to thank the Fierce Deity I’m still wearing underwear. Real underwear, not that…that glorified elastic monstrosity she was so intent on having me try on in the mall. In public. I haven’t forgotten her interest in seeing my skin, her flirtations, or that I have no idea how to respond to them. I don’t even know if I _should_.

“You look like you’ve been touched pretty brutally, if you don’t mind me saying so. Link give you a rough night?” She frowns, staring at the lighter lines over my shoulder and the darkened bruises that don’t even hurt anymore. They just look like some monsters decided to try turning me into a messy spook skid-mark, which isn’t that far off.

“Don’t I _wish_. It’s been a week. I’m metaphorically dying here.” Nayru knows I could use an orgasm or two to take my mind off of things, at least temporarily. Like the fact Link said he loves me, which means he’s introspective enough to recognize it and impulsive enough to actually say it. Even if it’s nothing more than the heat of the moment in a stressful situation, because he’s a fucking sappy dork. Yeah, forgetting that ever happened would be _great_.

“I wouldn’t go that far, but you could definitely use a little TLC.” She complains, as though my bruising offends her. It might, since she seemed rather put out about the ones I carried at the mall, and they weren’t as extensive. More visible, sure, but smaller and shallower than the ones currently decorating my complexion. She even picked out an ointment to help them heal and a thick, pasty makeup thing that was close enough to my skin tone to cover the ones I couldn’t hide with my clothes.

With complete confidence and utter surety, like she has experience hiding bruises. Huh. That…bothers me. Probably more than it should. She’s Link’s friend, not mine. Still.

“Come. If we hurry, I should have time to help tidy your hair, and then Link should have breakfast ready.” She continues, oblivious to my enlightened dismay, and the newfound respect for her strength I find myself considering. Then I process what she said.

“Is it the paper mache paste he calls oatmeal?” I wince, wondering why in Nayru’s name I didn’t wake up when he did in the first place to prevent that disaster from occurring. The Calamity is bad enough, overcooked and somehow still watery oatmeal is just an additional, unnecessary offense.

Saints and Sages, coffee would be a miracle, though.

“I don’t think so. He had sausages and potatoes on the barbeque, and a bowl full of canned fruit set aside when he asked me to come wake you up.” She informs me, then smirks. “I thought you liked his sausage.”

As crotchety and thick witted as I can be in the morning, I need to remember who I’m talking to. Unlike my former _domine –_ whose father is very much alive and has most of his dick crammed into his personality – Lady Senza’s parents are so far out of the picture that they’re living with their offshore accounts far, far away from here. Far away from her, and any associations with Hyrule’s political and geographical landscape. She’s the Duchess of Whittleton, officially, and I’m back to being a rupee-less, unemployed, couch-surfing violet spook who isn’t even taking classes.

Unfortunately, she takes my silence as a cue that I need a heart-to-heart galvanizing chat instead of the few more hours of sleep that would really do me the most good. Fortunately, that talk involves her yapping as she brushes my hair, and me listening and trying not to fall back asleep. The inane chatter is enough like Kamo’s that I don’t get hives from an almost-stranger handling my hair, though I do wind the blanket around myself tightly enough my wrist aches and fingers are numb by the time she’s done.

I’d have flexed a bit if I’d noticed sooner, which would have made dressing somewhat less of a dog and pony show. Thank fuck she doesn’t insist on helping me with that. Taking the time to wrap my legs and arms properly means I’ve got the feeling back by the time I make it downstairs to find the entire yard filled with all the people in Lady Senza’s retinue from last night, as well as all the neighbors that couldn’t be bothered to help with either the Lizalfos or the clean up afterwards. I recognize a couple of the fucking useless S.A.G.E.s from the bus mall riots. No surprise that their willingness to help when it actually would be helpful is accompanied by all the urgency of a dead slug. Fucking _Hylians_.

To be fair, there are a few Humans, a Gerudo family, and two Gorons in the mix, but the overwhelming majority are fair-skinned, blond or brunette, light-eyed, pointy-eared, _bourgeoisie_ Hylian cluster fucks. Most of the homeowners look at me like I’m something to scrape off their shoes before they go inside, if they acknowledge me at all. The rest don’t bother doing more than taking a step further away from my path through my betters to my master, though one absolute gem makes sure to wonder when the trash collectors will be coming around very loudly as I go by.

No one’s actually calling the A.R.G., though. Not with two recognized nobles visibly interacting with my spook ass in a perfectly PG-13 manner.

Lady Senza even braided my fringe back so the mark on my face is as visible as my bound and beaded hair. The resultant nauseating gleam of mistrusting vitriol aimed in my direction ensures that I’ve lost what little appetite I had by the time I make it to Link’s side. He’s not the only one with a barbeque going, so I guess this is now officially a block party. Neighbors chatting, food being shared out, and even a fun little game for the kids called “pin the overt suspicion on the spook”. Of course they stare – some of the teenagers with more interest than hostility – but not one of them dares draw the ire of their parents by doing anything _more_ than gape at me and titter behind their manicured hands and cosmetic dental work.

“Ignore them.” Link murmurs – like that’s even remotely a possibility when I can _feel _them looking, their sour merlot chromatics searching for the best place to stab – handing me another grilled sausage and a less-charcoaled potato than the one I attempted last night. They’re both still warm, not hot, so I don’t get to burn myself as a distraction when handling them. My stomach threatens mutiny on smelling the food, and I can’t in good conscience waste it all by forcing the issue. I know myself well enough to predict when throwing up in my mouth a little has imminent potential to turn to throwing up outside my mouth a lot, and would rather not, thanks.

I’m not stupid enough to waste it by ignoring it, either, and manage to conceal both bits of breakfast in my pack without him noticing, but he’s not the only one watching me. Thank fuck for small favors, but Lady Senza doesn’t say anything about it, even once we’ve left the crowd behind, “borrowed” an extra bike without permission from the family whose residence I invaded, pedaled through a sidewalk-less suburbia for what seems like forever, and are standing in front of her home.

Whittleton Manor. Whoop-de-fucking-do. Somewhere inside lies her family’s heirloom necklace, which is somehow responsible for their prosperity. Not like all the people working for them for generations or laws forbidding anyone but Hylians from owning property in the development phase of the neighborhood had anything to do with that. The Saints and Sages know that the small group of loyal servants she dragged across the district got abandoned fast enough when she wanted to go home. Just leaving them all behind with the rest of block party.

Useful as an ingrown toenail, that.

Fucking. Hylians. Excuse me while I see how far back in my head I can roll my eyes…but I don’t really want to close them, what with the seeing dead people thing.

If I thought the ghosts of Korokshire were thick, these ones are _solid_. I can _taste_ them, and the fine hairs on both Link’s and Lady Senza’s arms rise as we cross the fenced off gateway. They flicker in and out of coherence, just like my reasoning. The concentrated Malice has yet to seep into the flagstones – let alone manifest into solid form – but it coats the property like a blanket of mist, gathering in the corners and smothering the new life that is supposed to herald the arrival of spring. At least it’s a little warmer out, which means the chills I’m getting are either entirely aetherial, or my stolen Dragonborne designer hoodie isn’t as good as the side-bar advertisements claim.

“Can you see it?” Lady Senza whispers to me, faded saffron uncertainty enough to make her hesitate going further into her childhood home. I simply nod to confirm her perceptions, my stomach echoing the cautious sentiment. I do _not _want to immerse myself in a space so filled with foreboding that it gives Link pause.

Of course, that doesn’t mean he stops.

Fucking _Heroes_.

Lady Senza – braver than I’ll ever be – catches up quickly, leaving me to scurry behind them both and wish that I could still believe this was some elaborate illusion produced by the Sage of Shadows. Experiential evidence and logic, however, point out the reality of just how short-sighted and arrogant I actually am for even considering that possibility.

I, no matter how prideful I get, no matter how close I could be to the Hero, am not worth that much of Veran’s time and effort. Even if she has been thoroughly Corrupted, it doesn’t make sense for either Veran or whoever has become the latest host of Demise’s Curse to keep me trapped in an illusion when they could have just killed me outright and have done with it. I am still alive, ergo, this is real.

Fuck me sideways, this is real.

At least the Whittleton Family has taste. Not that I doubted Lady Senza’s - given how well she dresses – but this place is mimosas for brunch _class_. Despite being however many decades old, the elegance of the mahogany paneling, brass fixtures, marble floors, and subtly patterned wallpaper give an aura of spacious welcome despite the antagonism of the home’s current calamitous squatters. All of it, however, is overshadowed by a series of stained-glass panel windows overhead, fracturing the pre-noon sun into a kaleidoscope of variegated hues.

It’s as overtly religious as you can get, and I wasn’t expecting that, considering Senza’s…well, everything. The Church isn’t exactly forgiving of those that fall outside its strict – and entirely arbitrary – binary boundaries. I can pick out Silent Princesses in the borders, the Hyrulean Royal Crest in the peaks, Triforces in the center of each of the seven side panels, and the main window features a brilliantly detailed Helmaroc King fighting a faceless Hero in green. I forget which sect venerates the Hero of the Winds above all others, but this piece is clearly a masterwork of either a member of that sect, or was commissioned on their behalf.

It’s beautiful, and I spend longer staring at it than I really should, considering that both Link and Lady Senza are heading deeper into the west wing as I gawk like a country cousin. Quickstepping to avoid being left behind, I almost run into Lady Senza’s back turning the corner because she’s stopped in the middle of the hallway for some Trine forsaken reason, and I have to step around her broad shoulders to see.

The hallway runs the full length of the manor, and floor to ceiling windows let in the light, showing off a range of items each worth more than the sum of my potential life earnings in the form of statues, paintings, sculptures, furniture, and two Bubbles making rounds in the hallway, their eerie spectral flames giving everything around them a wavering lime and chartreuse tinge.

“Sheik?” Link hisses, low and urgent, as Lady Senza stays as motionless as possible. It doesn’t really help, since Bubbles are literally brainless skulls floating through manipulation of their own eldritch aether in order to seek out other sources and feed. As smart as starfish, and unfortunately about as hard to kill.

Lady Senza’s more of an appetizer than Link is in the prey-for-brainless-aether-eating-monsters department. At any other time I wouldn’t hesitate to call him a snack, but he’s really more of a hearty lunch for someone carbo-loading at this particular juncture. I’m a veritable four course feast. Why the fuck I thought it would be a good idea to accompany them is a mystery for…

…welp, that’s a Moa. Whatever triple-distilled fuckery juice the Dark Realm is on, it’s officially broken the seal. Floating skulls, floating eyeballs…what’s next, a floating nose?

Please don’t be Wallmasters.

“Sheik!” My master bites out in a clear demand for more information than the nothing I’ve managed to give him so far.

“The luminescent, floating skulls are called Bubbles, don’t touch them directly or they’ll jinx you and feed on your magic. Disrupt their pattern to break the suspension flares around them, then they can be injured. If you can, shoot the Moa – the flying eyeball thing – from a distance. They feed on more than just your magic.” Like experience. The very thing that makes us who we are. “Actually, leave that one to me. Just…bash the skulls until they stop glowing, then cut them to bits.”

“Got it.” Link nods, drawing his sword. I start pulling on the newest of my Spirit Orbs to garner the strength I’ll need in taking on the eye-balliest eyeball to ever be utter balls.

“What about me?” Senza asks, making me glance back at her and consider. She moved well in the mall, and lent me what energy she could spare. This is her home. She deserves to fight for it, and the people that still remain here. That there even are people here is _balls_. How such a small girl could stand to live here with more Malice than dust probably has something to do with her ability to move so quickly and quietly that I didn’t notice her and Link didn’t hear her when we first entered.

“You know the layout.” I shrug, waving at the girl to come join us. If a child is harmed because we failed to guard her, Link would be heartbroken. Senza would be devastated to lose one of her people. I’d mourn, but deal with it in a spectacularly unhealthy fashion. Mostly suppression, with a little bit of self-flagellation to taste. Still, it’d be a cleaner death than Paya’s was, and they’re about the same age. This one a little younger, but not by much. “Guide us, watch our six, and tell us if we miss anything else.”

“Here.” Link adds, and I turn to see him hand over his bow and the last of our arrows. “It’s set to my regular pull weight but can go heavier, so adjust it if you need to.”

“Thanks.” Her hands on the weapon are practiced - adjusting it to suit her sturdier frame and the fact she’s taller than both Link and I - and she has an arrow knocked but not drawn to test the pull herself inspiringly quickly. It’s not fast enough for me to have seen where the girl went in the interim, but if she’s been here alone since the Resurgence, she’s a survivor. She’ll be fine. Probably. There are more important things to worry about at the moment.

Like the burning eyeball that no amount of artificial tears will ever be able to soothe.

There are splotches of discoloration on the hardwood floors running all the way down the hall along the lines of the enemy patrols, and as we watch to gauge both pattern and rhythm of motion, the limits of how far the Bubbles go is apparent. The Moa is a bit more difficult, moving in and out of a side room through a destroyed doorway that I can’t see into beyond the sunlight spilling through the burned door hanging off of one hinge.

Three repetitions of the same pace, the same spacing, the same cheerfully bouncing horrors is enough. I’m itching with gathered magic, and Link’s confident in their range if not his companions. Lady Senza nods, and he slinks to the edge of the hall against the wall, as silent as an owl and twice as deadly, waiting for the moment the Moa is in the side room and the first Bubble has its back turned.

There’s not much to be done about the second one but to strike the first Bubble fast and hard and take it out before the second can gather itself to retaliate. If we’re lucky, we’ll be able to take them both down before the Moa completes its circuit. As it’s literally a flying, flaming eye, lacking anything resembling ears, I don’t think it can hear anything that would alert it to our presence. In the five meters from our discussion point to the doorway, all of my nerves seem to seep out of me, letting me ready both a dagger and Urbosa’s Fury in case everything goes to shit.

So of course everything goes to shit.

Not immediately, and not in any way that could possibly be anticipated given what information we had to begin with, so I feel entirely justified in my swearing when it does happen.

Lady Senza is a _fucking amazing_ shot. Link is an incredible swordsman. I’m a better than average mage, if only for precisions’ sake and a heritage that gives me more aetheric oomph than any of the other humanoid races aside from Hylians could hope to be gifted with. The Bubbles go down quickly, quietly, and separately. The Moa’s electrified corpse doesn’t even hit the ground before it disintegrates, leaving nothing but magical flames on wax coated hardwood floors.

Fuck my life. The discoloration isn’t from the patrols, but the little droplets of Moa fire that it was trailing like bad-taco diarrhea dribbles after a night of heavy drinking. I don’t have any cantrips that would be at all useful in extinguishing the now burning floor. I _can _pull on my Silver Scale for water, and do even as Lady Senza bemoans the damage to her home. The flame goes out around the same time my water bubble does, blocking my sightlines. Which is of course around when the shit happens.

The Moa had a friend.

It comes charging out of the side room in a relatively straight line, aiming directly for me. Ears. Fur. Tiny pin-prick eyes. Fucking teeth. So many _teeth_. Rows on rows of them, as if someone crossed a rodent and a lamprey and made it somehow undead, because there’s no trace of living energies coming from it.

An eel and a rabbit. Or a kangaroo. It bounds over the wreckage of the doorway in a single leap all out of proportion with its size and lands close enough that I can _smell_ its rotten breath on the exhale as I bring my wrapped and warded arm up to block and it clamps down on the offered limb like a piglet on a sow’s tit.

Greedily. Instinctually. Fucking hard.

“Sheik!” Link hollers, late as public transit. I have a split second to wonder how a ghost can be physical enough to bite before I don’t care about the theory behind the reality of it.

“Get it off, get it – ah! Fuck!” I yelp as it gets through clothing that’s closer to light armor and all of my protectively spelled bandages. Then through skin, and muscle, scraping bone.

Adrenaline ensures my pupils are fully dilated, so I see crystal clear as Lady Senza’s arrow passes straight through it and into Link’s calf.

The monster explodes into ash even as he falls. Without the jaws locking down on my limb, my arm explodes in a shower of dark red blood, warm and sticky. Dizzy. Instantly. Lady Senza screams. Link is covered. A little girl laughs. That seems like a good idea. I laugh too.

“Oh, Goddess!” I didn’t know Lady Senza even knew how to in-weave her _saithr_ strands without any noticeable casting circles or pre-made talismans, let alone that she had the strength, but she’s just suddenly there. Between us. Taking off Link’s pants as he whines in pain.

It’s _really_ not the time for that. Not that I’m complaining. Fuck getting fucked, I haven’t even been lucky enough to _see_ his dick for days if I discount the sponge baths and last night’s stalking pursuit. I know I was complaining earlier today that it’s been a while. I just never expected her to take such an active role in correcting the…oh.

Oh that _hurts_. Enough to make black spots that have nothing to do with either Malice or ghosts dance across my vision.

The belt around my arm is way too fucking tight, but I can’t seem to work the buckle to get it off. There’s something wrong with my arms. Both of them, aside from the obvious. Can I still say arms? Does 5/6ths count as arms?

“Stay with me, Sheik.” Lady Senza orders.

“Where the fuck would I go?” I want to snarl, but only seem to be able to mumble. I’m tired, and it’s barely past noon. My hair is really heavy on my neck, pulling my head back as the ghosts press in. Flickering. Not dark in the way that Malice is – like an oil slick on the pavement – but dark like a deep, still pool. Feels like floating...and like the worst road rash in the world from halfway down my forearm to my wrist. Lady Senza tries to touch it, and I can’t help kicking to get her to stay away. It fucking _hurts_.

“Stop fighting.” Link strains, gasping. Like I haven’t been told _that_ before. It’s never been intended to do me any favors, just make it easier on whoever wants something from me that I don’t want to give. Officer Kohga was just the latest example. “Kaya, stop it!” He hauls himself up enough to grab my jaw. “Look at me, dammit.” There’s an arrow shaft buried to the fletching in his calf. No wonder he’s grumpier than Rusl was after a bad night at the dice tables. He told me to stop fighting, too.

Fuck them both…but they’re right. Not fighting makes it easier on them…but fighting doesn’t make it any easier on me. Rather the opposite, in fact. Better to give in and get it over with.

“Sorry, this will sting a bit.” Lady Senza warns as I notice the faint bits of green in Link’s eyes - right around the pupil – the ones that only appear when he’s intently focused on something. I agree. That arrow needs to come out, and from the way he’s able to move, it hasn’t hit anything crucial. Just muscle. It should come clear right…

“Din DAMN it!” Swearing helps. A lot. It also keeps me from biting through my lip as Lady Senza decides to set every nerve in my arm – finally fucking numb from the tourniquet and probably shock – on absolute interstellar _fire. _Stomping on the hardwood helps to, even if leaves me a panting mess by the time the worst of it has worn off and the red potion does its job.

The laughing girl from the entryway is back, watching as the flesh on my arm knits itself back together slowly enough that Lady Senza can pick out the threads of fabric before they’re covered over. She stands and watches the three of us, skin sallow and tinted grey in the dim lighting…except the more I watch her, the more I can see that it’s not the lighting. Her skin is actually grey.

She’s also a wee bit dead. Undead. _Fuck_.

This complicates things, but also explains why neither Lady Prick nor Lord Pincushion react at all to her presence across the hallway. I have a feeling by the time we’ve taken back Whittleton Manor, my master will have more than enough circumstantial, personal proof that ghosts exist to believe, though I can’t do anything about scientifically verifiable evidence.

Once the skin of my arm is back to its normal smooth tan and no longer itching like a decade of venereal disease, it’s Link’s turn to be tended to. I didn’t pay particular attention to the chapters on musculature during my frantic review of Hylian physiology before leaving on this adventure of a lifetime, but I did review it. Lady Senza unlaces his boot while I test my own channels – both aetheric and physical – contemplate my aetheric capacity, the complexity of the task, and how the fuck I’m actually going to get the arrow out in the first place. As far as odd piercings go, I don’t think that this one will really catch on.

Then again, frenum ladder piercings are a thing, so what do I know?

“Can you wiggle your toes again?” I request, watching closely for responsiveness and range of motion, and ignore the itching of artificially healing flesh. I need to See what muscle groups are the most affected. Get to watch as his vitality continuously drains from him due to both blood loss and pain. There’s not much to do about the first aside from transferring the makeshift tourniquet from my upper arm to his thigh, but the pain I can soothe easily, and do.

Not eliminate it, just…make it not matter as much. Getting rid of it would only cause more damage as he pushes himself too fast and too far and actually tears something. This is just a puncture. A big one, sure, but there _are_ lobe piercings with bigger gauges. Again, why, I do not know. I do know that – no matter how we go about this – I’m going to crash and crash hard afterward. Basically as soon as my cortisol and adrenaline levels stop spiking, which won’t happen until I know he can walk again. Judging by how soaked the remains of my sleeve are – and the floor, and the wall nearly up to the ceiling – possibly at that very moment. A hallway is no place to do it.

“Is the room clear?” I dare not ask the Lady of the Manor to check directly, let alone order her to, but if I phrase it as a question – indicating which room I mean with my chin – no one will think I’m getting above myself and feel like taking it out on my spleen. She readies Link’s bow before looking – proving she’s not an idiot – and does a thorough sweep before returning to where we both lie on the floor, utterly useless.

“Clear. Do you want to move him to the couch? It’s in the middle of the room facing towards the windows.” She still hasn’t put away her arrow, and given where the last one she fired is, I’m not inclined to piss her off. If it weren’t for the bunny-leech creature being undead and her arrow passing through it without even slowing down, it would have been a perfect killing shot. In the dim interior, while moving, with a moving target, and an unfamiliar weapon.

Farore.

“No. The less we move him, the better. I’m just going to be as useful as a Silver Scale in Death Mountain‘s crater afterward and will need to recover before we go any further.” I admit. If I’d have been able to eat breakfast, I’d still need to rest…but food would help the restore some of my strength. With no bigots letting their fears get the better of their logic and staring me into paranoia, my stomach might even be able to tolerate solids. Luckily, I have breakfast in my pack. The potato is a little mushed, and the sausage cold and congealed, but food is food and Link’s injury needs to be tended to. Fast. So I need to eat, so I can use another orb and fix him.

It’s my fault he’s injured in the first place. If I’d taken the monster out instead of freezing at the unfamiliar threat, Senza wouldn’t have felt the need to shoot.

“Kaya.” The gentle admonishment from him when I take breakfast out of my bag sets my face to slowly warm as I eat as quickly as I can, tasting nothing, and pulling out my marker to sketch while I swallow. The last time I saw the base Rune for this, it was on a blanket in the emergency room. Nothing like a little relatively recent trauma to help with recall. Saints and Sages, let me get this right. The arrowhead is the same size as the shaft, and so rather than break any of it off, I’ll just reverse the process. Restore as I go, and avoid cauterizing anything so I don’t have to fix burns as well as the puncture.

Fuck, here we go.

“On the count of three.” I tell him. He nods, and I pull, activating the Runes and letting it have all the power it needs to work as intended as Link barks out something rude enough for me to be both immensely proud of him and absolutely appalled by my bad influence on his vocabulary.

The laughing girl stops laughing long enough to scream in rage, her Corrupted nature coming to the fore as she materializes only long enough to slam me against the wall, breaking my spell-work as my fingers sliding through the lines obscure and then obliterate the catalyst-well amplifying the speed of cellular growth.

Instead of banishing the revenant, my sword finger and shield-palm wave keep her physical for a full breath, letting me learn a little more of her weaving before she breaks free of my hold and flees into one of the still-life scenic paintings lining the hall.

Dead, as evidenced by her lack of a pulse or breath or any of the energy patterns associated with living things. A sorceress, as evidenced by her affinity for manipulation of physical, inanimate objects instead of living aetheric fields like I do. Hylian, or Human – or at least mostly so – from the blue eyes glazed over by the sulfurous corruption of Malice. So heartbreakingly young - fourteen at most – at her time of death.

I have no idea if the marks on her wrists were self-inflicted or not, but given the depth and length…unlikely. She was bled, probably for a Dark Magician to steal her power. Most likely the same one who now is using her presence to hold the Manor for the Agent or Agents of Demise. _Just _as the Twilight Bloat held Korokshire, only with more people and more complex structures already in place to create a cesspool of spite and rancor.

Getting Lady Senza control of the house has taken on a whole new level of importance in this quest to cleanse the taint of corruption from the land. If she’s _not_ the Champion for Whittleton, I’ll eat my socks. Fuck though, if there weren’t those who fear and detest her very existence already out there, her home would not have become an incubator for the evils it now holds. It’s fucking frustrating, and I’m not even the target of it. This time.

“What in Hylia’s name was _that_?” She gasps, the grey-ghost girl gone from every one of my perceptions.

“The Corruption we need to destroy in order to cleanse this area.” I groan, attempting to stand and failing. A bit more rest, then, before heading to the couch she mentioned for a bit of a nap. By the Three, do I miss coffee. And showers. And clean clothes. I also prefer to have all my blood on the _inside_, personally.

“A Neo-Ozunda _painting_?” She screeches, pitch rising sharply enough for Link to cover his ears and me to wince and postpone rest in order to give her a much more in depth overview of what exactly Link has dragged me through since the fractured skies turned as bloody as my side. Omitting as much of our personality clashes as I can in the telling saves time and effort, and doesn’t change the facts of what’s happened. Thankfully, he helps when I tire much faster than I should.

Motivation aside, we still abandoned the only home he’s ever known, killed a shitload of monsters, walked forever, broke into someone’s home and stole their stuff, slept infrequently, bathed less, witnessed the collapse of the Conclave, and lost our only means of safe contact with the Royal Family. With Princess Hilda. Princess Hilda _Zelda_ Marie Hyrule.

Y’know. The only one who can _fix_ this fucking apocalyptic disaster.

We haven’t even found Princess Tetra yet, though I’m certain I’m tracking the correct patterns…or as certain as I can be that Schrodinger’s cat is alive.

Saints and Sages, forget coffee. My kidneys and liver should be able to handle enough vodka to wipe my brain clean of the Resurgence, at least for a bit. Too bad for me we don’t have access to either of those things, and are down another two full bottles of red potion.

Thank Farore that the only damage Link seems to be suffering now is a torn pant leg and an overdeveloped hero complex. The first is taken care of with a heavy sigh, and the second with somehow forgetting I know how to walk and can rest on the floor as easily as on the couch. Why he feels the need to carry me at the slightest provocation is a question for the ages, and at this point it’s easier to just shut the fuck up and go with it.

The couch is in what I can only describe as a music room, complete with more instruments than I know the names of, a wall of mirrors reflecting the sunlight, and a ballet barre. I’m not so ignorant that I can’t recognize the grand piano for what it was before the bunny-leech sank both teeth and claws into it, and know from Lady Senza’s silent fractal grief at the sight that the instrument itself will be missed. Greatly.

“May I?” My current master and former _domine_ asks quietly, waving towards the string section that’s mostly intact.

“S-sure.” Lady Senza nods, sangria sorrow turning to lavender melancholy until Link picks up a bow and sits behind the moderately sized string instrument that can’t be a violin or a, um, a string bass, and is definitely not a guitar. It’s the wrong size for either of those, but I don’t have the brain cells to identify more than that. He hesitates, uncertain, before pulling the bow against the strings and opening up an impromptu concert with a children’s round-song about boats and bodies of water. Fiddling with the pegs fine tunes the harmonics, and makes his shoulders relax before he tries something a little more complex.

The second piece, however simplistic and inexpertly played, relaxes me and seems to imbue Lady Senza with some cheer. He blushes when he’s finished and apologizes for the sour notes, then wanders over to help her stand. I take the hint, and get to my feet with only a little vertigo induced wobble. Restored by both the rest and the unexpected music, the only thing I can do is keep moving forward, at my master’s side. If I find out the Senza likes hugs as much as Link seems to, well, that’s just useful information in maintaining morale. For all of us.

Like fuck I’ll admit it out loud, though. The last thing I need right now is pity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the later update - was about 3/4 of the way through the process and giving one last scan for formatting errors when internet died. Mooching off the neighbor's at the moment, with permission.


	14. Specters and Monsters and Scares, Oh My

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don’t Be a Bard, They Say. Bards Are Lame, They say.   
Or: Link’s Trying, Okay?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: none? I think? This time, at least.  
Warnings: Mild gore, interpersonal conflict, bad dungeon mechanic descriptions are bad, facepalm.exe has stopped working, long chapter is long.

Without accompaniment, _The Swan_ isn’t nearly as moving as I remember it being. Of course, my last cello lesson was a decade ago, and my technique is horrendous, which probably has a lot more to do with it than a missing piano counter-melody. Sheik’s too dazed to care. Senza doesn’t seem to mind. I know my playing for her doesn’t mean much in the face of losing Baby to the same monster that attacked Sheik, but it means something, and something was all I could do until he recovered enough to sit up on his own.

I can’t do everything. I’m not arrogant and delusional enough to think that I can. And I couldn’t do _nothing._ Not when she was hurting, and there was something I _could_ do. I _had_ to. Had to move, to focus, to act, if only to deal with the rush I get when I fight in a way that wouldn’t have Senza and Sheik chasing after me and possibly getting hurt. Again.

Senza didn’t mean to shoot me, but the freaky rabbit thing sure meant to eat Sheik. Took a good sized bite out of him at that. There was so much blood…and _that_ made the pain in my leg seem like nothing at all. I didn’t really feel it until after he and Senza had my boot off and I knew he’d be okay. I can _still_ feel his hand on my calf – gentle and soothing – as he healed me. Draining himself on my behalf, when more of the potion would have worked just as well. It worked on his arm, so why did…

I fumble a fret in frustration, and struggle to find the place of outward calm that my music instructor said to maintain while playing. It’s the same calm I try for when I’m fighting, inside, and once I find the first the other isn’t far behind. Then I simply have to concentrate on what I want my audience to feel, and play _The Swan _with all the half-forgotten skill I possess. The music itself doesn’t matter, but what it _carries_ does.

Purity, beauty, grace, strength.

Once I find them, the notes come easier. The bow glides. My fingers remember how to dance, and the music swells into fullness. I feel…better. Senza relaxes, regaining some of the confidence she’s lost. Sheik stays pale and quiet, even though I know he can talk.

And I am so, so grateful I pressed the issue, even if the consequences of my decision were painful and – even though I can’t feel him anymore – I know they still ache.

He didn’t eat his breakfast. Didn’t finish his supper last night, either. Goddess, sometimes I just want to shake him. Yell a bit. Press him into the couch cushions until he starts at least _thinking _of taking better care of himself. I don’t think it’s too much to ask, and it hurts every time he doesn’t. At least he’s resting, now. That’s something…right?

I can smell the tattered remains of his borrowed Dragonborne jacket and the sleeve of his last good shirt from here, which means that whatever monsters are still lurking in Senza’s home can smell it as well. If I could send him out, I would, but it’s not safe go alone. Nowhere is safe…and I need him to tell me about the monsters that have overrun Senza’s home so we can get back the Whittleton necklace and all it represents, then keep going and find Tetra.

Time is against us, but if I don’t _take_ the time now to help a friend and let a lover recover, I’ll lose them both. It makes me want to swear more, and drives me to my feet as soon as Sheik isn’t bleary and nearly passed out on the couch.

All I can do is take point as we keep moving deeper and deeper into the manor, keep fighting the monsters, and keep humming loudly enough to block out the creepy giggling that echoes ominously at random intervals. Sometimes I think it’s sobbing, but the metamorphosis back to laughter is as consistent as it is subtle and absolutely maddening. I can’t find where it’s coming from…but every public room has another one of the disquieting New Ozunda paintings like the one that the monster Sheik hasn’t even _attempted_ to name disappeared into.

After the first four times hearing it, I started counting in between incidents, and so far there’s no pattern that I can figure out. Just…creepy.

It was quietest over by the private offices near the servant’s quarters where Senza got her father’s journals, and has been getting progressively louder as we near the ballroom, back stairs, and kitchen. A proper kitchen mean I may be able to scavenge something a little more satisfying than the sausage and potatoes that have been breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the last day, as long as I can figure out which cupboards and doors lead to dry storage and freezers.

I’m not willing to risk anything that was in the walk-in refrigerator at this point. Not with the funk of spoiled produce and bad milk wafting out the moment I break the seal of the door. It leaves me gagging and my nose deadened to anything else while Sheik finds a series of bins and Senza turns on the gas for an ancient oven. I thank whoever it was in her family that decided they should keep the picture windows on the southern wall when Whittleton Manor was modernized, because it lets me read the cookbooks kept on the shelves above the bins of rice, flour, sugar, and powdered milk.

Pancakes aren’t waffles, and are different from the unleavened flatbreads that I’ve made while on the trail. I wish that Gillian were here to help me with my first few attempts, but there’s no way she would have made the walk at all. At least – with enough honey – they’re edible. Mostly. Some are mushy inside, and others dry and burnt, but I eventually get the hang of flipping them so they’re not sloppy or broken and at least sort of cooked. Soon enough that I have extra batter after distributing a decent pancake per waiting plate.

Food fuels the body, and so we need to eat. I’m the only one counting the minutes, so I know we’ve been in here for over an hour. I’m not _happy_ about it, but I can’t begrudge taking care of basic needs. I learned my lesson. Rest when you can, or be forced to rest at a less opportune time. We’re nearly finished with the ground floor, so we’ll rest, and may as well eat while we do. If we can.

The giggling comes frequently, now, and is sometimes definitely crying. It sets my teeth on edge, and – excusing the expression – spooks Sheik completely. Not that he eats much to begin with, but he doesn’t even manage half of one of the almost decent pancakes before putting his fork down. He’s shaking, and it’s not just the days of exhaustion, but over-strained nerves and an active imagination that drives him to do it.

And the directionless, echoing sounds of a young girl crying.

Senza isn’t much better, glancing around every time the giggling starts up again and breathing quickly and shallowly. They both jump at the smallest things, and it’s setting me up to do the same. I’m not as artistic as Senza, or as smart as Sheik, but my imagination works just fine. I’m impatient a lot of the time…but not a reckless idiot. When something moans beneath the floor, I spill the last of the pancake batter directly into the flame, making it smoke and burn until I can shut off the flow of gas to the element.

There’ll be nothing edible out of that one, and I put the remains of the other awful ones into the compost bin to…rot where it is. No one’s been able to get past the monsters to do their jobs, including basic housekeeping duties. The staff have all fled – which I have to think is a good thing – but it means there’s domestic chores that need doing and no one to do them. Senza and Sheik need to rest and digest, and they do so as I clean as much as I can. It’s not much. I would do more, but have no idea where to begin. If I’m honest with myself, I barely keep my own room bearable. Without Ulli’s constant care, it would become uninhabitable very quickly.

I should give her a raise when…when I can. Functioning payroll software is the least of my worries at the moment. Figuring out how to deal with that accursed giggling – and the thing that’s causing it – is number one. Number two is split between Senza and Sheik, and making sure they’re alright. Number three is finding Tetra, and making sure she’s…as alright as she can be. Number four is figuring out how to get things back to normal. Or at least as normal as can be achieved at this point.

Blessed Hylia, I’d much rather be writing mid-terms right now.

But I’m not. I’m here, with two of my important people, about to open the doors to the ballroom and face whatever lies beyond. It’s been less than half an hour since we ate, and I’m pretty sure that we’re going to see some heavy exercise in the next little while. Leaving my much reduced pack on the ground next to the doors, I wait for Senza to open the quiver on her hip and Sheik to gather his magic close. They’re scared. I’m scared. Senza wanted to wait for reinforcements. Sheik said they’d take too long to arrive, and then just get in the way.

I’d rather get it over with now, while we have the tactical advantage of both knowledge of the terrain and an expert in magic and the monsters we’ll be facing on our side. The A.R.G. enforce by-laws, giving tickets and intervening in petty disputes as well as minor first response duties. The T.A.R.G.E.T. teams deal more with drug lords, trafficking, and violence. The Witchfinders deal with unorthodox magic in all its forms, but I’m learning that the chorus of orthodoxy doesn’t really allow for so much as a complementary descant, let alone improvisation.

“Ready?” I ask, hand on an exquisitely cast bronze handle shaped like a dragon curled in on itself, shield at the ready, sword sheathed but set for an easy draw. I’ll go first…and if I need to, take the first hit. My defenses are better than either of theirs, even if my offense is better than Senza’s and my stamina is better than Sheik’s, so it makes the most sense.

“Ready.” Senza nods, voice raspy and full of conviction.

“As I’ll ever be.” Sheik’s words are a breathy mutter, but his hands are steady and his spine straight.

I turn the handle, and lead the way into Whittleton Manor’s ballroom through the servant’s utility doors.

It’s quiet, suspiciously so. The furniture from Senza’s last gathering is stacked on trolleys against the walls or covered with dust cloths, illuminated by bars of light let in by the floor to ceiling windows on my left. The ballroom is two stories tall, a mezzanine on the second hosting another Moa instead of some of the more introverted guests that Whittleton can play host to. A single Bubble on the ground floor shrieks challenge but provides none, seeming to practically run into my shield and then hold still for my sword.

It takes me four steps for that monster. Senza takes five, aims, and fires, bringing the Moa down for Sheik to douse in a small burst of conjured water, barely singeing the floor or banister, three steps in.

The doors slam closed behind us, the dragon tails twining around each other as their wings stretch to become chained bars that cover the doorway with an ominous clank. Locked. I tug on the handles to make sure. The doors won’t budge, don’t even rattle in the frame. Then the giggling starts again, echoing and hollow, and the unnerving dissonance returns.

“Stand back.” Sheik growls, and I can hear the crackle of heat he has gathered in his raised palm before it touches the door in a burst of flame, a sizzle snapping in the air. The patina left from thousands of hands ends up covered in soot and glowing hot, but the lock remains. “Well, fuck.” He grouses, and turns to squint at the rest of the room. “Looks like we’ve got a key to find.”

The giggling seems to agree with his assessment, turning to outright cackles.

“Clockwise?” Senza suggests, sliding her arrow back into the quiver but not sealing it.

“Sure.” That seems as good a method as any. I sheath my sword, keeping my shield free, and head to the first trolley of boxes to start searching.

“Hold on.” Sheik cautions, moving ahead of both of us to tap the walls and boxes before we walk by or touch anything. As if the boxes themselves are traps, or the statues will suddenly move. I appreciate the caution, but they’re just boxes and furniture. Decorations. Inanimate objects don’t randomly come to life.

The door handles did.

Maybe he has the right idea, after all. Sort of. There are three of us capable of exploration, but he’s decided to act as bait. Without even consulting me; his boss, or Senza; the Duchess of Whittleton. It’s _her_ home. We’re here on her behalf. He’s _my_ Sheik. My responsibility. If I’m not allowed to take on a blue Bokoblin face first, he needs to at least discuss what we’re going to do before putting himself in the most vulnerable position possible in an unknown and dangerous situation. We may not be Bonded any more – thank Hylia – but he’s still _mine_, and risking himself without informing anyone else of those risks is _unacceptable_.

It only takes me a few seconds from realization to outrage, and I storm over to his side fully intending on telling him not to be so…so…stupidly self-sacrificing, but he taps on a breastplate of one of the suits of armor and it starts moving as soon as he does it.

I barely have time to get my shield up and over us both before the war axe comes crashing down onto it. Right where he was standing. The honeycombed blue major-fifth magic he has isn’t nearly enough to stop that kind of blow. My shield – physical, layered leather, wood, and metal – is all that keeps my arm from breaking even with his precautionary protections. It would have crushed him. The realization hits me in my gut in less than a heart-beat. The warmth of bruising down the length of my forearm follows right after.

“Uh…I think I found it.” He gasps, prompting me to relax my grip on him and reinforce the arm currently bracing my shield against the weighty axe’s descent, keeping it from finishing the job.

“What…is it?” I grunt out at the pressure increases, making me stagger. It’s obviously not a person, since even the stupidest person I know would realize that just pushing down isn’t working and would have tried a different tactic at this point.

“Aside from trying to kill us? Could be a couple things. Have to find out more for a positive identification.” He swallows.

“Link!” Senza shouts. “I can’t get a clean shot!”

“I’m going to zap it.” Sheik tells me, pulling further away and making the armor groan louder than my straining joints. “Get ready to roll.”

“Do it.” I huff.

“On three.” He nods. Despite the last time he said that, I trust him to follow through now. “One, two, three!” Tucking and rolling backwards, I hope that he’s cleared the monster’s range because that axe would split either of us in two with one direct hit. Leather and cotton and canvas and whatever magical protections he’s put up aren’t enough to mitigate the weight of the axe, let alone the sharp edge and the velocity with which it’s being swung.

I draw my sword on finding my feet and am relieved that he has, indeed, moved out of range of the armor monster’s axe…and struck back. Lightning crackles as the thing seizes…but doesn’t go down. Senza fires, the arrow ricocheting off an ornate pauldron and landing, marked but undamaged, on the wooden floor with a clatter.

“Not a Soldier or a Doomknocker!” Sheik calls, shocking it again and making the air sizzle and stink of ozone. His magic doesn’t seem to do any damage to it at all, but it does stun it for a few seconds every time. The next time I hear his fingers snap as he releases the spell, I charge in with a reduced flurry rush, giving me time to back off the moment it starts moving again.

My attacks - as well as Senza’s arrows - do no apparent damage.

“Not a Darknut or an Iron Knuckle!”

“How many kinds are there?!” Senza snarls.

“Two more! We’ve got Phantoms and Armosae left, unless it’s a new kind of kink in this whirlwind of a fucknado.” He snarls. “Link, try to get it to chase you. Lady Senza, circle around the back when I stun it again.”

“What will that do?” I’d like to know _before_ I close with it. It moves quickly for something that big and heavy, though not as fast as Groose on a bad day. Not anywhere near as quickly as Ashei.

“Tell me what it is, if nothing else.” He shrugs as Senza works her way around the perimeter. “Once I know for sure, we can build a strategy.”

“Fine.” I grumble, and adjust my stance for rapid movement in nearly any direction. Then I rush it, and dance back the second it starts to shift. Creaking. Groaning. It doesn’t move anything like a living opponent, and so it takes me a few tries to goad it into stepping away from the wall. Except it doesn’t step, just…hops. Using its whole body to move instead of moving its legs separately, like it uses its whole body to swing its axe.

“Armos!” Sheik calls. “Keep guiding it out, Link. Lady Senza, there should be a crystalline power structure on its back keeping it animated. Aim for that. If it starts spinning, get the _fuck_ out of dodge ‘cause it’s gonna blow.”

“You know, you’re pretty useful to have around.” Senza proclaims with a tight grin, already moving. “If Korokshire ever gets too provincial for you, feel free to drop off an application.”

“Quit trying to poach my staff!” I protest, dashing in to harry the Armos further into the middle of the room before darting back out of range. The single hop doesn’t mean it closes distance quickly, but it’s steady. Relentless.

“Just letting him know he’s got options.” She shrugs, then drops her teasing to focus on the task at hand. “A little further out, please.” Two of the trolleys for chairs against the wall keep her from getting behind it, which means I need to move it about five more hops so she can have a clean shot.

“Do you see it?” Sheik asks once I’ve got the monster’s attention again. The process might be boring compared to the Bokoblins, but it doesn’t smell nearly as bad, no one’s been hurt, and it’s working. I remind myself to have the same kind of patience for this as I can manage for fishing, because rushing that will get you either nothing to show for it or less than you started with. An empty stomach, broken line, and lost bait are bad enough without losing the rod entirely.

“Yes.” The distinct ping of Senza’s arrow chiming against the Armos’ back means I can relax. She did it. Rolling my shoulders as it spins in place, flashing bright red, I can feel my vertebrae pop with the released tension. The explosion is bigger than I expect, and leaves nothing behind but foul smoke and more of the small amber beads once the ash has dissipated. Nothing at all.

“There’s no key.” Turning to my Sheik, wanting an explanation, he taps the breastplate of another suit of armor – another Armos – against the wall. The second of six that look like that.

At least we have a strategy, now.

By the time the last one detonates, we’ve got the procedure down to a science. I hold the monster’s attention. Sheik interferes with its attacks and supports my defenses. Senza – strong and mobile – exploits its weak point and destroys it as soon as she can get behind it for a clean shot. The moment the dust clears I hear a faint snick of the door opening, and scoop up the Amber Relics to add to the batch I already have saved from the Twilit Bloat and Shadow Insects.

If I could pull it off, I’d string them up like Sheik has his beads wound through his wrapped hair, but I know I’d feel even more ridiculous than I’d look. My hair barely reaches my ears at the very longest point, and could use a touch up where I normally have Kamo shave an undercut in the back. Kaya’s braid still hits the back of his thighs – just above his knees – despite Kamo cutting it. I know that it hits the floor, unbound. He doubles back to the utility doors for our bags – as quiet as ever – while Senza gathers the arrows that are salvageable.

Six down, damaged beyond repair by exploding monsters. I’d have brought more, if I’d known.

A bit dazed, Sheik wanders back to my side as Senza leads us through the grand entrance and back to the formal reception room, and I can tell something is different before we get there. Something aside from the voice of the laughing girl in the painting softly sniffling. Then chuckling.

Insane.

“The vault is in the closet of the master suite, on the north side. Now that I have papa’s notes, we should be able to unlock it and get out…of…here. What is this?” Senza ask, reaching for the red and black oozing barrier dribbling over the stairway that wasn’t there when we walked in. Before she can touch it, Sheik grabs her hand.

“I have to recommend _against_ touching the Scourge of Malice directly, your Grace. Corruption isn’t a good look on anyone, let alone someone with your exquisite taste.”

“Why, Sheik.” I’ve never even _heard_ of Senza blushing in embarrassment from flattery before. Ever. I’ve known her since I was eleven, and the tabloids run articles twice weekly. “Thank you.”

“It’s the truth...” He shrugs. “…though if you can help me with Link’s wardrobe, I’d appreciate it. He dresses like his fashion sense got drunk and was inspired by Lord Agahnim’s cholesterol.”

“What?” I’m…confused.

“It gives me heart palpitations and the inability to maintain an erection…” He deadpans, then grins. “…but that’s okay. You can just walk around naked and problem solved.”

“Malon definitely agrees with you. Of course I’ll help.” Senza laughs, grinning just as widely as she takes his hand in turn and they shake on it. “The Princess may even have to give us medals for our service to the country.”

I gape at them both, a little offended, but mostly just shocked that they’re being so friendly with each other. Camaraderie is good, even if it is found at my expense…I think. A backhanded compliment? Teasing, definitely. Together. Not that they were unfriendly before, but now it sounds like they’re friends. Like we’re all friends. Good friends.

Certainly much better friends than any of the people from Sheik’s old life that I’ve met so far. Not that any of them are bad people, just ill-suited to…each other? I guess? I don’t know. I feel as though I’m on the verge of understanding something very important, but it keeps slipping through my fingers whenever I try to close in on it. I blame no breakfast waffles for almost a week.

“We have something a little more pressing to deal with at the moment than my fashion choices.” I remind them both when the realization slips away like an elusive Hylian Loach back into the depths of my mind. The faintly burbling, tar-like oozing of the Scourge doesn’t get any less gross for a second glance. Neither does the aching pulse of the red glowing bits. I don’t want to get closer than I am, and from the repulsed expression on Senza’s face, neither does she.

Sheik seems to be able to read more into it than either of us, but he doesn’t share his thoughts as he paces the length of the stairs. Instead, he and Senza discuss points of our shopping trip before the Hinox interrupted it. I take the time to rest, idly checking my sword and shield and our provisions. I could eat again. Have a nap, maybe. If I could convince Sheik to lie down with me, that’d be great. He’s tired. I’m tired. I have to assume Senza is as well. We could all use a break. More of a break.

“We could leave.” Senza says after staring at the seepage blocking our path to the second floor for a good while. “Come back with reinforcements. Like a T.A.R.G.E.T. team, or the actual Royal Guard, or a Witchfinder Ostiary, maybe. Maybe a dog. Anything would be better than the ragtag band we’ve got going on here.”

“Um.” Glancing at Sheik - who’s gone still and quiet again in a way that means either his anxiety is acting up, or he’s offended – I know it’s up to me to take the lead. I’m not his _domine _anymore, to dictate his life…but I still kind of am. I agreed to it. He agreed. There’s simply no external magic enforcing that arrangement any more. Nothing to force him to stay. Nothing to trade his life for mine…but he’s here. He hasn’t even tried to step out of line. “Sheik?”

“What?” He snaps, not looking up from a patch of floor that must be fascinating. Offended, then. I hear Senza’s indrawn breath hiss at his tone, but don’t take my eyes off his hunched shoulders or defeated posture. “Lady Senza’s right, this is her home. We should respect her wishes. If she wants someone to come fuck themselves up and possibly die trying to clear the Scourge, then that’s…that’s...”

I wanted him to be my Sheik, without being my slave. He was trained for it, after all. He _is,_ essentially, a member of the Royal Guard, with a T.A.R.G.E.T. issue converter. He’s also as overwhelmed as I am, and easily twice as exhausted, trying to guide both Senza and I through the mechanics of fighting monsters from a past that any sane person believed to be no more than myth. He’s _not_ a leader. His inability to stand up for himself makes that much obvious. I am, but I can’t force him to be something he’s not. Even if it would be convenient.

If Tetra’s told me once, she’s told me a hundred times. Be careful what you wish for.

“…fucking perfect. Just _fucking _perfect. I’m sure they’ll come around sometime next month, if Hyrule lasts that long. They _definitely_ won’t do what you just did and _reach right in_ so they can be Corrupted or killed immediately. It’s good to know I’m so entirely worthless that a dog would be preferable.” The flat, toneless statements are harsh and uncalled for.

“Sheik, she didn’t mean it like that.” I try to diffuse the raw ache of old wounds being aggravated, soothing and soft, and count myself privileged to be allowed enough intimacy to touch him in his upset. Proud of myself, too, for not yelling at him or shaking him like I want to.

“Saints and Sages, I know that! I just…I…” He sighs, and actually leans into me, freezing my heart in my throat as it swells with unwarranted joy, seizing my lungs in place. “Why am I _never_ good enough?” He whispers into my shoulder, not as quietly as needed to keep Senza from hearing it.

“When did I _ever_ say you weren’t good enough?” She growls, storming over to get right up in his face…and mine, by proximity. I somehow keep forgetting how tall she is. Sheik has to crane his neck to meet her eyes, and I’m not much better.

“Sen…” I start, intending to warn her off of his surprisingly fragile self-esteem. He has so much to be confident about, but like everything else, the moment I attempt to compliment or tell him I appreciate him, he runs. I’m no therapist, but even I know he’s got a number of issues that the amount of stress we’re all under doesn’t help him manage.

“Directly? Never. That’d be too obvious, and can be dealt with easily.” I feel him tense further in my arms, and tighten them to keep him from bolting. Or striking out. “But implicitly? Death by a thousand cuts, your Grace.”

“When did I…_how_ did I _ever_ make you think that?” She asks, voice breaking. I, too, would like to know. Aside from pondering if this task would be better left to recognized professionals – not knowing his training or abilities like I do, and even I’m uncertain of a lot of them – she’s exceedingly careful about how she speaks to people, knowing personally how much of a difference it makes.

“Forget it. I’m tired, and overstepped myself.” He backs down instantly at the first sign of conflict. A conflict that he provoked, not entirely unjustified, but out of proportion. It was simply a suggestion, after all, and now that he’s upset and Senza’s upset, he’s wimping out. Without solving anything. Again.

It pisses me off. If he refuses to either advocate for himself or tell anyone how to help, then he can deal with the consequences of inaction and uninformed decisions. I’ll make the choice for all of us, and hope that it’s the right one….or at least not the worst of my possible options.

“You’re both tired. I’m tired. Let’s take a break. Get some sun, have something more to eat, maybe a little nap.” If for no other reason than getting away from the damn creepy laughter. “We can come back late afternoon to figure out how to get around the Scourge.”

“We can’t just…” Sheik’s head snaps up as he starts another argument.

“No.” Interrupting him, being the cause of his muted intensity, makes me ache somewhere deep in my gut…but releases the tension in my back and throat. “We’re taking a break, Sheik. Outside, now. Come on.” Letting him go, sliding my fingers down his arms and through the mess of his sleeve, I catch his hand in mine and secure a grip that brooks no argument, tugging him along behind me. Senza follows, the fourteen arrows that remain rattling in the quiver.

Even if we can’t find anyone to help from a recognized agency, Senza’s own security forces should be able to catch up by this evening or early tomorrow, and we should restock and rearm before then if we can…or have her draw a basic floor plan and leave her outside while Sheik helps me take care of the monsters inside. Even a ladder tall enough to reach past the banister would work.

The problem with my simple plan for the immediate future is wrought in brass and stretched across the main doors. Thick bars like the ones in the ballroom seal our passage to the outside world as effectively as we’re sealed from the second story. Letting go of Sheik – who yanks his hand back as though my touch burns him the moment my grip falters – I have to reach out and try this one too even though I know, already, it’ll be useless.

It’s locked, making my priorities shift, then shift again. We had to kill monsters to get a key to get out of the ballroom. We need a key or some sort of a metaphysical wet-vac to get outside or upstairs. There are no monsters in the immediate vicinity.

I’m almost entirely certain that dealing with the painting-girl-monster who is still screaming/laughing/crying at random intervals will unlock at least one of the two barriers keeping us trapped, which makes priority number one and number two kind of the same thing. Three is related, in that Senza needs more arrows if she’s going to continue helping take back her home from the monsters. Four is taking Sheik back to the kitchen and shoving something down his throat before he passes out from overusing his magic and what I suspect is blood loss. We can have a nice little…chat…while he eats.

Five is getting out of here and finding out where Tetra is.

Six is getting to wherever that is.

Seven…seven I’ll figure out after that.

My priorities shift once more when the ground shudders and a gurgling splatter sounds from the grand staircase in the reception room. Sheik pales and wavers on his feet, letting me move past him to witness the disgorging of another Bubble from the Scourge, this one larger and more menacing than any of the ones I’ve encountered before…and then there are two of them.

Challenge accepted. If nothing else, fighting will keep me moving and not thinking too hard about the implications of everything I’ve witnessed over the past few days. About why I’m so very angry.

They attack together, and this time a single blow with my shield does not extinguish their aetherial flame, nor does a single strike of my sword bring them to an ashen end. Two blows, three strikes. The next one takes four. Then there’s another. They’re getting stronger…and they keep coming. Every time I knock one aside, run it through, spattering ichor on Senza’s nice floor, the Scourge vomits up another. And another. And another.

“Link, back off!” Senza shouts, startling me out of the entrancing dance of blade and shield and foe, and I stumble as the Bubble I just rammed bounces back against my side. It doesn’t hurt, but it does knock me further away from the Scourge and into some sense. Enough to realize that my companions haven’t been idle – leaving me to fight alone – and that Sheik’s mutterings have a distinct rhythmic cadence to them.

“…_yo piuha Nayru! Sia!_” He doesn’t raise his voice, but the raw _power_ behind his casting alongside the complicated dance of his fingers and limbs makes it seem like he did. Two of the beads from his hair glow brilliantly, and are snuffed out as his magic courses visibly across the marked floor in streaks of a vibrant, liquid violet.

“_Sun’nan Hylia!” _Both hands outstretched, his wrists twist as his fingers flex, drawing up a large...orb...from puddle. 

“_Sia!”_ Bringing both hands together, dragging clawed fingers apart, I can feel the energy crackling as the slimy red and black form of the Scourge…blinks, exposing a yellow cat-eye that glares at us all, and then _melts_. Viscous and fluid, it runs over the stairs and darkens, spreading out and reminding me of the slow boil of one of the Subrosian tar-pits.

“You can…” He gasps, and Senza takes up her bow and shoots the Bubble I had extinguished right between the eye-sockets. That’s enough of a hint for me to close with the other one. No more emerge – though the Scourge continues to froth – leaving the front door still locked and the stairs still blocked. “We can…go now. Without…having to…check our…backs.” Panting, he wipes the sweat from his face with a tattered, bloodstained sleeve, leaving streaks of dried blood behind instead.

”You going to make it?” I ask him, concerned. He’s breathing hard. For someone with skin as comparatively rich in melanin as his, he shouldn’t be that pale…and he’s been casting an awful lot.

“As much as…any of us.” He huffs out have a chuckle, smirking. “I wouldn’t say…no to a booster, though. Even if they…taste like…an alcoholic’s piss and…anchovy smoothie.” The revolting description does little to recommend trying one myself if given the opportunity, though I will hand any I come across over to him.

“There should be a bunch in the activity room, where I practice.” Senza offers, still upset but willing to let Sheik’s accusations go for the sake of keeping the peace.

“Can you call Light?” Sheik asks in a rush. “Nayru’s Love? Do you know Stasis? How about Reflect?” Each burst of words is more rapid than the last, leaving him panting again by the end of it.

“I dabble, but not enough to do anything effective.” She shrugs. “If I’m lucky, I can keep my tea warm longer, never worry about lighting candles, and supplement others, but that’s about it.”

“Damn it.” He sighs. “Give me a few, then, before we go. The activity room, you said?”

“That’s right...” She nods. “…in the basement.”

“Oh good.” He laughs, stepping as carefully as a drunk back towards the ballroom. “I think that’s where the anchor points are. Two birds, one stone, zero fucks.”

“This way.” As soon as we realize he means to go get a booster immediately, Senza takes the lead. Through the ballroom, back towards the kitchens, but one set of double-doors down to the left instead of the right. They aren’t locked, and lead to a set of switch-back stairs and freight elevator heading to the basement of Whittleton Manor. I can’t see anything beyond the landing and the top four stairs descending into the darkness, but there’s definitely something moving down there.

Something big, and heavy, and viscous. Something that slurps when it moves. There’s only one way to figure out what it is…and then deal with it. That’s something I can do.

Finally.

“Let’s go.” With what I only later realize is a grin splitting my face wide open, I take the first step towards meeting the challenge, my sword in hand and friends at my side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...uh...while fleshing out the point-notes for chapter 30 I had two characters I wasn't planning on introducing until the next part show up and tell me that they were staying. So at least 31 chapters, but probably more of the angst-wanking before we can move on to the chronological 3rd part of the Of Cake and Calamity story. That still needs a working title beyond TwoHalvesOfAWholeIdiot.doc and contains a ridiculous amount of smut.  
Ideas?


	15. You Had One Job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The inside of Sheik's head is a fascinating place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: no triggers, but hella squicks, especially relating to body functions and fluids  
Warnings: internal navigation of intersectional classism and racism, exhaustion leading to mental wandering, subtle flashbacks, bad dungeon mechanics, and...oh yeah, language. Surprise! \o/

We’re all going to fucking die.

And I mean, that’s not a surprise. Happens to everyone that’s born, eventually. I just didn’t expect it to be like _this_. Willingly walking into the figurative bowels of a Manor House of one of the founding noble families in order to break the Seals holding the Scourge of Malice warding the stairs, just so we can fucking have afternoon tea with a bipolar Redead tween sorceress.

Bowels contain shit. They have one job. That’s the entire purpose of their existence. Mine is to observe, advise, and then follow my _domine_ no matter where he goes. Which is apparently into shit central. First. Just walking right on ahead of us both like Lady Senza wouldn’t be a better guide and I have nothing to contribute to this harebrained endeavor.

At least the view from back here is nice.

Too bad he can’t see dick all in a darkness that has _my_ pure-bred spook eyes shifting even harder than they do on a cloudy, starless night to compensate for the utter lack of anything resembling illumination. _I_ can’t see worth _shit_ four steps beneath the landing, and apparently there’s an entire fucking hallway to navigate to even get to the practice room where Lady Senza said she _may_ have a booster. Possibly.

And I need one very, very badly. My last Fury was about four too many for my system to handle, and about six more than I thought I could manage in the first place. Then there was that Seal, and my pride-with-a-head-injury saying I should break it. Since I’m not dead yet – despite my heart’s arrhythmic beating and my lungs sucking in air like I suck cock when textbook lists are announced at the start of term – a booster would be good. My capacity’s increased a metric fuckton since my last grading exam, and is utterly worthless if I don’t replace the energy somehow…quickly.

Eating anything at this point will take too long for me to digest, what with the whole systemic shut-down to keep my heart and lungs and brain going on what energy remains. I don’t have the blood to spare for digestion. Not now that I can’t feel my feet, and the throbbing in my temples doesn’t matter. It’s there – just like my arm and nearly as painful – but it’s not important. What’s important is that I follow Link. I can barely see the warm blur that’s ahead of me, and I should be able to see more. Better. I need…

…something. What were we getting again?

Not oxygen. My chest is heaving enough for that to not be it. I’m so far past tired that that doesn’t matter, either. We were going to get…get a booster. Yeah. That’s it. Fishy piss-juice. But it’s too dark to see the way, even with the warm burgundies of a heat mass shifting past the doorway. It’s going the wrong way. Lady Senza said to go the other way. I think. I can’t remember. I need to though. It’s important. It would have to be, for us to be down here in the dark. There’s something we need to get, if my executive dysfunction would fuck off for half a minute and let me…

…let me…

“Light?” Link asks, safely hugging the wall at the base of the staircase, and it’s such a simple, basic request that I don’t think twice before calling my witch-lights. I just need to obey him. Follow my _domine_. Don’t let him out of my sight. It’ll all be okay if I don’t lose sight.

I can’t lose Sight.

“Sheik?” Someone asks, trying to get me to look away. Start walking again. I can’t. If I turn away, I’ll lose him. I can’t. I _can’t_. If he goes away, he won’t come back. He doesn’t come back. If he doesn’t come back, then I’ll never be a Sheik. I’ve been working _so hard_ to be a Sheik. His Sheik. There are only three of us left.

Why is it so dark? I don’t like it. He probably doesn’t either. I need to…

“Light?” Eran asks again, and I have to close my eyes and concentrate to do it right. Be good. Use the tech. I don’t like it, it makes it harder to do anything well, and takes more energy for essentially the same damn thing. But my converter makes my magic good magic instead of witch magic, and it’s tricky. Tricky, tricky, tricky. I can do it though, if it’s for him. I have to.

“Goddess, you’re freezing!” The super tall Lady who likes me but not like I want her to like me yelps, her burning hands on my burning arm. Something presses into my lip. It hurts, but not like inside. Inside feels like dying.

“Drink.” My Light orders, and I do.

It tastes worse than what came up the first time I went dumpster diving in the wrong bin and ended up puking for six days straight, but it makes my guts stop tearing and twisting and I drink it all.

Inhale. Exhale.

Again.

Goddesses.

“Here.” The hand that tilts my chin back up is gentle and warm and strong, and I swallow, swallow, swallow, until there’s nothing left. I lick my lips, hoping for more, knowing there isn’t, and slowly realizing how much of an idiot I am.

“I wish I had a magic decanter.” Lady Senza sighs from my right.

“The jars work.” Link counters to the left. “I’m just thankful you had them.”

“I hope I have enough.” She agrees. “How many do you think he’ll need?”

“At least one more to get him on his feet, but probably three or four for that _and_ keeping up the illumination spell for us to see. I have no idea what it will take to get him in fighting shape.”

“I can hear you, you know.” I grumble, now that feeling is returning to my extremities. Pins and needles and knives all stabbing away like a psychotic tattoo artist with nothing more on hand than a rusted ball-point pen and wooden ruler to outline full sleeves.

“Oh good…” Link says. “…because I never thought I’d have to tell you this, but _stop being so damned stoic_. If you need a break, or food, or water, or sleep, or any of the things a reasonable adult would be expected to require, _tell me_. Better yet, _take_ what you need, because I’m getting awfully tired of you running yourself into the ground.” Scolds. That’s scolding. Goddess, what fucking dick. This entire field trip was his idea.

I can see he’s worried, though, and I _know _he doesn’t mean to show his privilege quite so strongly.

“I…” I want to argue with him anyway. Defend myself. I really, really do, except I have no argument with even a shred of logic. I _have_ been consistently over-extending myself. There hasn’t been much of a choice. No choice, really, when my other option is letting him be hurt or killed. “I’m sorry for making you worry.” I can’t promise that it won’t happen again, though. Hyrule fucking needs _him_. I’m just another spook, no matter what he said. I blame the close quarters and recent combat for that little outburst of misplaced affection.

No one needs me. The only one who ever did is dead, and it might as well have been at my hand.

“Then don’t do it again.” Lady Senza demands. “You’re a member of Link’s household, now, and he takes care of his people.”

“Didn’t you try to steal him from me less than two hours ago?” Lord Spoon drawls.

“Steal is such a vulgar word. I simply informed him of other available employment options to a mage of his caliber.” Lady Senza arches her brow, and I can barely see her do it despite the witch-light still burning with an indigo flame in the palm of my hand. At least I can do something right. Increasing my output for a lumen level a Hylian would be comfortable with will have to wait until after I get another booster. Thank fuck she’s got a double armful of the things, even if they’re smaller than a standard caffeine-and-sugar energy drink.

No wonder the flavor lingers, at that concentration.

…blech.

“Technically, that’s stealing.” Talking to avoid drinking another for a few seconds lets air on my tongue and makes it taste worse since I can _smell_ it now, too. Sitting up under my own power makes me glad it’s so Din damned dark, forcing me to find my balance through relational kinesthetic sense alone. Gravity helps. “I’m _his_, your Grace. Unless he transfers the deed, or you find an agreeable sum, paying anyone else for my labor would be theft. Including me, strictly speaking.”

The burst of indignation she erupts with puts her in my visible spectrum again, and the residuals have me reaching for another booster and chugging it because fuck me if I know what in the ever-loving imagination of everyone’s favorite Dark God _that _is. Fire is easier to convert than Light, and I get colder than a Yeti’s nethers to do it, but we can all see clearly that the latest guest has finally shown up to the party in Senza’s basement.

No eyes. No _face_. Fuck, no discernable _head._ Or _limbs._ It fucking _squelches_ as it moves, leaving a trail of slime behind it that glistens faintly. Less mucus than a Chu-chu, though I think it’s thicker. Not that being thicker makes it any better in this case. Four out of five stars, would gag again. I chug a fourth booster without even tasting it as Link draws his sword.

“What in the world is that?” Lady Senza’s indignation turns to repugnance pretty damn quickly when confronted with the whatever-the-fuck it is.

“How should I know? Sheik?” Link asks as I watch it and try to discern what I can of its structures and patterns. Taller than Link, but not as exothermic in its biological processes. No _saithr_ strands or emotional overtones, so unintelligent, and probably not a reptile. Undulation supplies locomotion…and it moves slowly, which kind of makes it even worse. That it only moves towards the nearest living thing means it probably wants to eat us, and it’s definitely big enough to munch us all and still be hungry for seconds.

“A sentient, carnivorous, prolapsed rectum would be my guess.” The sound my stomach makes in response to a fifth booster joining its friends is a lot like the sound the monster makes, and both of them turn to look at me, disgust written on their faces like a protest sign in piss-yellow Comic Sans. “What? I’ve only studied the records back to the Twilight Era! This is either older than that, new, something I’ve forgotten about, or something that killed everything that came in contact with it.”

“Well that’s cheerful.” Link grouses, and cautiously approaches it from the side…sort of. It’s hard to tell which part is a side when it looks the same from all angles of the slurpy-sloshy segments, but if the direction it was moving in is ‘forward’ and ‘front’ then it can still react and elongate to…eat the shield he brings up to ward off the attack with a reversed vomit-like schlorp. “Uh…” Jumping back gets him out of range of the stretchy upper-mouth-orifice and puts him close to the wall of the practice room…and neatly in a corner.

“Let me try.” Lady Senza requests, swallowing her apprehension just like it swallowed Link’s shield, and knocks and fires directly into the center mass. Her arrow disappears, doing a little bit of puncture damage, not emerging on the other side like with the bunny-leech that tried to make spook tartare out of my forearm. It’s solid, alive, and can be hurt. That’s good enough for me.

“Do you have any other projectiles?” I ask her, hoping that our measly arrow count isn’t the only ranged weapons we have. I’m not worth the net income of a pimple vendor right now, unable to muster more than the equivalent of a static charge to the hand not holding our only source of illumination. Letting that light go to attack would mean being unable to know _where_ to attack.

Majora, this is not funny _at all_.

“Just arrows, but I have a lot.”

“Wait a minute.” Link murmurs. Instead of pursuing him into the corner, the monster…lurches back the way it came. In less than the minute my Master requested, it’s disappeared back into the depths of the basement where the light from my baseline weak-as-fuck elementary level fire conjuration cannot reach.

“The actual fuck?” Why the Dark Realm would breed such a creature that wasn’t poisonous or aggressive or a threat to the Hero in some way, shape, or form, is baffling to me. Of course, I’m not running on all cylinders right now, but I am doing better than the last time I drained myself to utter incompetence on Lord Spoon’s behalf. As I should. I’m nothing more than a conglomerate of useful skills for his use, like any other tool he has at his disposal, if he would just _use_ me.

I’ve had three more boosters than I did then, too.

That might be why I’m shaking.

“It took my shield.” Link glares at the faintly glistening mucus trail and fucking pouts. Puffy cheeks, pursed lips and all. Nayru preserve what little sense I have left, but there’s no way a grown-ass man should be capable of an expression that adorable. I…want to mush his cheeks.

The utter fuck.

“You can have your bow back, now.” Lady Senza offers. “I’ve got mine, and a spare, and enough arrows to supply a small army.”

“It took my _shield_.” He insists, like reiterating it will somehow change the facts or bring it back. “Like…it just…what…”

“Like-Like!” The name so nice they used it twice. Or the name so moronic it should be iconic. From the way Lady Senza’s eyes are huge and Link’s tilted his head, my outburst may have been a little louder than I intended, but his indignant stuttering triggered my spotty and sometimes unreliable memory.

I remember. That day Regan and Yeran had braided each other’s hair to try and confuse Teacher as to which twin was which, and Rozel and I were more interested in who could make the bigger fireball than in the monster of the day lesson. Especially when it wasn’t a dangerous monster, but one intended to scavenge battlefields and keep weapons and armor out of the hands of the enemy and looters…with the enemy being the Hylian Alliance, just before the start of the Seven Years War. Boring, especially to a bunch of energetic eight year olds.

Plus, it had a ridiculous name and was thought to be extinct, since the Hero of Champions was able to scavenge weapons pretty easily.

I still think whoever named it ran out of ideas, but recalling a name brings other connected facts to the surface of my mind and I should probably share.

“A Like-Like is a gelatinous, tube-like creature with a voracious appetite for un-enchanted equipment.” I explain, thinking hard as to how Teacher described them and what was written in our textbook. “They will suck up their prey and consume all metal and leather armor and weaponry before spitting out any enchanted items or living tissue inhaled in the process. Should an individual kill the Like-like before they have had time to digest their meal, most equipment may be reclaimed.”

“I can get my shield back?” Link perks up like a pedophile in a waterpark, and I’ve got to stop that nonsense before he goes down the slide head-first.

“Going to chase after it in the dark without a weapon you know will work?” Lady Senza does it for me, and it takes me a second to realize my jaw hurts because of how widely I’m grinning at her. Fuck I’m loopy if I’ve lost control of my face this badly.

“Uh, no?” He hesitates, already starting for the door and missing my expression completely. Thank the Fierce Deity for small miracles. I could have done without the scolding earlier, but it’s better than hovering like Lady Senza’s doing. I have to live with him…and as much as I’m growing to like her, I’m still uncertain about how to behave in her presence. I don’t know what will get me a wink and a nod, and what will have my spook-ass lynched for either presumption or because it’d be good entertaining sport.

I do know I’d prefer it if Lord Spoon didn’t get butthurt at a perceived insult just because my face decided to act under its own volition, and if he’d refrain from dashing headlong into danger without discussing it first. That’s a box-mix recipe for disaster, just add water, and I’m a total hypocrite. Someone must be getting a real chuckle out of that somewhere...

_…fuck_ you very much, Majora. It’s. Not. Funny. None of it. I hope an incontinent bear with a stomach infection shits on Your mask. Not in it, on it. Whatever poor shmuck You possess next doesn’t deserve to smell that, but You _certainly_ do.

Instead of running off after the Like-Like to get his shield back as his first instinct demanded, Lady Senza manages to convince my…to convince Link to take back his bow and then arms them both with more arrows than I suspect they’re going to need. Good. That lets me drink yet another booster, which gives me the strength to start transmuting another one of my beads into usable aether so I can refill my magic meter, and then start feeding _that_ through my T.A.R.G.E.T. issue converter.

An amplifier would be nice, but they’re risking their jobs by giving me even that one piece of equipment. I’m grateful for it, even if it’s a fist-sized pain in the ass.

A Witchfinder will know I haven’t been entirely…orthodox…if I run into one, but as we continue to explore the basement of Whittleton Manor I can conceal most of the lingering taint by simply flushing it from my aetheric composition. I also get to introduce my _domine_ and Lady Senza to Keese – which their arrows send back to the Dark Realm as quickly as I could wish – and a second Like-Like. The first has gone somnolent in digestion when we find it, the leather straps of Link’s shield gone entirely by the time he finishes fileting it like fugu and pulls the metal remains from the ash.

Another lap of the basement leaves the four Seals anchoring the Scourge in place, but there are no more monsters, and only simple block puzzles acting in place of a keystone-crystallization warding the Seals’ foundational aether-strands. Any mouth-breathing idiot who has played any of the free versions available online of _any_ descending block puzzle game could solve it in a dozen attempts, and the blocks even conveniently reset to the initial configuration when Link fucks up the first puzzle.

Three times. His success gives him a keystone with a jagged edge that’s too regular to be caused by pure chance. Lady Senza takes the second one, also having to restart three times, leaving another keystone to her and the third puzzle to me.

I only fuck up once, so I get to do the last one, too. Huzzah for advanced spatial representation and formulation…though an understanding of the transference spells I know definitely helps. Transporting an entire living being through space and time is a bit more complex than these clunky fuckers. Shifting the interlocked shapes to line up both colors and patterning is child’s play, which I can fortunately accomplish single handedly.

The fact that they were most likely set by the Corrupted corpse of a murdered child in the first place probably has something to do with that, taking all my distain and turning it to a deep, aching sorrow…but does not still my hand.

The barrier guarding the glowing Demonic Eye locking the Scourge in place disappears as the last set aligns, Lady Senza grabs the last keystone, my phone’s step-counter buzzes with today’s activity goal being met, and we mosey along back to the landing at the base of the stairs for the Seal that marks the anchor point of the Scourge’s continual spawning.

The Seal itself dissipates with the alignment of the keystones in their matching shaped and colored blocks under Lady Senza’s hand, and I expect to go back upstairs past the Scourge and then on to the second story and _finish_ this, but she has other ideas that apparently my master agrees with. Without speaking to each other, or me. Again.

_Hylians._

Instead of continuing onward and clearing the Manor like any sane, expedient, and goal driven group of people would, we raid three of the basement storage rooms – taking as much as we can carry – and emptying the practice room entirely of all aetheric boosters. Sour and bitter and slightly fishy. I’d rather eat a dick, but beggars can’t be choosers.

Speaking of which…I’m okay with a polearm, and better than okay with my knives, and both of the nobles here are far better at physical combat than a decade of sporadic and solo practice has left me, but still. I’m not entirely inept. I mean, yes, without my magic I’m as useless in this group as a professional goldfish walker, but I don’t need to have my face rubbed in the fact. Their concern is noted, as is their ability to talk circles without addressing anything pertinent to the current situation.

Yes. I’m fine. I’ve had my boosters. No, I don’t need to be carried. As embarrassing as that would be, it shouldn’t even be considered as an option. Ever. Yes, I can manage the stairs. Of course I’m sure. I’m hard pressed not to let my light drop just out of spite, but I know that would make Link think I’m incapable, not just irked by the current line of questioning my ability to perform basic bipedal functions. If my master would just stop trying to save everyone…

…he wouldn’t be the Hero. And Hyrule would be fucked.

I suppose it’s alright, then. I can swallow my irritation a lot easier than my most recent failure to perform adequately.

Emerging into the sunlight once more is something I didn’t think I’d get to do, and it seems as though no time has passed at all. The light upstairs is still blindingly bright after the total darkness in the basement. The stained glass window in the foyer of the Helmaroc King is still a stunning example of a crafter’s masterwork. The front door is still locked shut. I’m still as tired as a man walking in front of an eighteen wheeler through all two hundred kilometers of the Zorana transit tunnel, and my arm is throbbing in time with my heart.

As I anticipated by the dissolution of the patterning of the _saithr_ strands anchoring the basement Seal in place, the Scourge is gone. I can see two more Bubbles patrolling their rounds at the top of the stairs. There’s another set of the landscape paintings the witch disappeared into hanging on either side of the landing, which makes me hesitate to climb the stairs and at least scout out the situation awaiting us before we plunge ahead face first.

That hesitation costs me.

“Nap time!” My master crows, and before I can make sense of the words he’s got my left hand in his right with a grip that brooks no argument – or circulation – and is tugging me down the hall back towards the music room.

“Good idea.” Lady Senza concurs, and the next thing I know we’re back sitting on the couch in the music room like there’s an extended director’s cut movie marathon about to start. Well, she’s reading the notes we retrieved from the office, Link is trying to fit a guitar strap into the spaces of his shield where leather once stood, and I’m slowly falling over and trying not to do it on either of their laps. As much as I want to straddle Link at least once more before I die, I don’t have the strength, and just collapsing on them would be undignified and more than a little inappropriate, considering our respective stations.

Who am I, to be here? Seated between a Duchess and an Earl like I belong in the same world, let alone the same house, the same room, on the same damn furniture. We should be cleansing the rest of the Manor from the taint of Demise’s army as quickly as possible. Every moment we don’t is another moment they have to gain power and spread His Malice further. With nightfall and the fucking Blood Moon – if we haven’t cleared the entire property – I can’t guarantee my hasty marker-scrawled wards will keep them from taking back every millimeter of ground we’ve gained today.

We need to go. Do _something_. Now.

“Sheik, sit back down.” Link urges around the guitar strap between his teeth. Stern and implacable pumpkin determination flashes in overtones through all of his layers, from base to crown and back again, breathtaking in intensity. Mine gets stuck in my throat. I sit, just like I did on our disastrous first date in the diner, knowing better than to even try fighting him on it.

There are some things you just _can’t_ fight. The weather. The tide. Petty, bickering, entitled idiots in the comment section. The track of the sun through the sky, tumbleweeds, and other forces of nature…of which I have to at least nominally count my _domine_’s indomitable spirit.

I’ve disappointed him. Again. Just being who I am and not who he wishes I could be. Who _I_ wish I could be, for him.

We’re not fighting. Flight isn’t an option, which means my old friend freeze comes by for a visit and decides to stay for a bit. Fashionably late, as usual. At least neither Link nor Lady Senza intends me harm, and I can refrain from trying to look even more pathetic in a last ditch attempt to make them think twice about punishing me. Instead, I sit, and remove myself from the panic that’s overtaken my body. If no one’s driving the bus, it stays in park. Indefinitely. I can wait for it to pass, and keep enough control to not fall over on either of them as they work while doing my very best imitation of an under-stuffed sand seal plushie.

It takes the rush of cold air from one of Whittleton’s ghosts to get me moving again – if only to shiver as they pass through me directly – and notice that we’re being watched.

She’s looking awfully corporeal for a malevolent spirit that’s down two thirds of her territory and allies, twitching and blurring at the edges while her center stays still as death. Still not breathing, but thankfully no longer laughing like a dolphin on speed, either. Fucking creepy. It’s the not blinking bit that _really_ clenches my asshole tight enough to plaster cast, though. I don’t dare blink, either, just in case she decides to move, and end up watching her like she watches…Link.

Strange. I would have thought she’d target Lady Senza. She’s the one who dispersed the Seal, and the only ancestral family member presently tied to this House and its foundational support of the Champion’s Barrier. Very strange. Not that anything about this…abomination…is normal.

Most ghosts don’t really move from whatever it is they’re attached to...but she’s not really a ghost. A Poe’s intent is bound in a lantern flame they’re doomed to carry until dispersed. A Redead just…screams. She has no lantern and laughs as well, meaning she is neither of those things. To defeat her, at least one of us should know what we’re dealing with.

I need to look deeper.

To look deeper, I need to relax, and there’s only one way to do that quickly without breaking eye contact or giving Lady Senza the kind of show Lady Malon wants to watch. Breathe, Kaya-bitch. Be as subtle as a Senator sneaking out an untrustworthy and urgent fart on live television. Shift your weight. That’s it. Careful.

Goddesses, Link is so _warm_. It’s not just a temperature thing, and I can’t help inhaling his scent in the second before I rest my head on his shoulder. That helps with the breathing thing, and the relaxing thing, and if I can just convince him to bend me over the couch after this is all done, life would be absolutely brilliant. That means there needs to be an after, which means I need to find out what the fuck we’re going up against.

If I hadn’t just watched as Link and Lady Senza unlocked two block puzzles and then unlocked another two myself, I probably wouldn’t be able to tell that whatever is binding her here is imposed. She did not choose to be so obsessed with something that her attachment kept her spirit from the Sacred Realm, though the emotion involved is as strong as the day it happened. That’s something I can work with immediately, and tease out the faintest tendril I can perceive to weaken the entire network. Just like I did with Link, before. With Grant…after. With Paya, first, and too many others after her to count without losing my focus.

She stays, watching me begin the work of tearing her apart from every connection she had to this world, and lets me do it. Helps me do it…but I only have the strength to form one small spirit orb without turning to yet another booster, and I need to manage my resources better than I have been. Now that I have resources beyond my immediate needs, at least.

_That_ is entirely Lord Spoon’s fault. One hundred percent. If he hadn’t bailed me out, kidnapped me, fed me, given me a warm place to sleep and a regular rate of pay, I’d still be spending both my magic and my money as soon as I got it. Irregularly. Infrequently. Entirely. Never saving anything, because there was never anything left to save once I’d taken care of survival and school…and sometimes only one of those.

I owe him so very, very much. The damn handsome jerk. He didn’t have to put down his half-repaired shield and wrap his arm around my waist. I’m just borrowing his strength for a bit. His kindness. His warmth. I don’t _need_ coddling. I’m a fucking adult…even if it is really quite nice.

“Come on, you can lean on me.” He murmurs, pulling me further against his side. “Rest. I’ll wake you in an hour.”

“How will you know it’s an hour?” I argue, and fight a losing battle with a yawn at the suggestion. I manage to keep my eyes on the dead sorceress girl, watering and slitted, but gain a few chins in the process. Real attractive, Kaya. He’ll definitely want to fuck you again after that inelegant display, especially with the way you stink of sweat, fear, and mostly dry blood.

“Do you trust me?” He asks, turning to wrap his other arm around me and lay us both against the arm of the couch.

“…yeah. I do.” I have, partially, from the day he took me with him to sword practice. Completely, ever since he stood between me and the old man. It isn’t even that the geezer was trying to kill me that bothers me the most, it’s the double standard. I should be used to it by now, except I didn’t have a control sample to test against before.

“Then rest. I’ll wake you in an hour.” He cajoles, and uses the hand I’m not lying on to close my eyes, breaking my fixation on the enemies that I’m contemplating. I’ve lost sight of the dead little girl, who I’m more and more reluctant to fight now that I’ve seen some of what is keeping her here. The other is an erroneous, outdated belief system that I can’t fight at all, at least, not directly.

“Just an hour.” I insist – unable to fight this, either – sinking against his chest with a sigh as the last of my freeze finally releases. Exhale the tension. Inhale the….eugh, he needs a shower. Not as badly as I do, but _damn_. I’d pull away if I didn’t smell worse, and he wasn’t so solidly _there_.

“I promise.” The words rumble out, his breath disturbing a few of the strands of my hair that have escaped their bindings before his lips brush my forehead. He’s always kept his promises. Always.

My sleep is deep, dreamless, dark, and instantaneous.

Waking from it is a monumental effort that I want a fucking medal for. Instead, I get a reaction headache and another Din damned magic jug to quaff as Link burns toast. On the other hand, Lady Senza’s kitchen staff stocks entire jars of the good, _real_ peanut butter – mostly peanuts and less than two percent sugars – to cover the flavor. Just because her head chef likes it better. She even uses his first name when talking about him, as though they have an actual, personal relationship. From the overtones washed into the very walls of the kitchen, they do.

I’m liking her more and more, Din damn it. It’s not my place for us to be casual with each other, let alone _friends_. What’s worse is that I’m so far beyond an appropriate level of ‘liking’ for Link that it’s fallen outside of any available version of an Overton window and disappeared down the fire escape. They’re _both_ nobility, and both of them…care. That’s rare as rocking horse shit…or apparently Korok seeds.

Now if I could just have a shower and the last eleven years of my life back, I’d be good to go.

I know neither one is possible. I’ve got to go anyway. I promised, and I will not be made a liar. So when the younger man who has become the center of my life rises and picks up his sword and shield, I follow. I won’t go into _this_ battle unarmed, and top up what boosters can’t replace by drawing on another Spirit Orb of my own making.

It’s mine. It always has been. All of it. Having memories accompanying the emotion gives me contextual relevance I’d rather do without. Having nearly two whole decades of experience using the damn things makes it easier to disassociate as I drain all usable strands of aether from it. I get more than I would using someone else’s – there is no transference costs or transmutations needed – and hope it will be enough.

By the Three, please let it be enough.

Let _me_ be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still trying to tie up the necessary loose ends to Unleavened, so you'll have to wait another update for the final chapter count.   
Also still trying to think of a title for the next part of The Calamity is Calling.  
Current contenders include : A Recipe for Disaster. Cooking up Trouble. The Yeast of Our Problems. Against the Grain, and A Hero Rises...but I'm willing to consider other horrible linguistic humor as well, if you have an idea and are willing to share.


	16. Home Is Where the Heart Is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Link's day just went from dungeon adventure to murder and he's not pleased about it. Moral dilemma/ethical crisis time, with a little bit of video-game mechanics-ish for...  
...a long awaited Boss Battle!  
Picks up where the previous chapter left off, but again, switching POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings : violence  
Warnings: mild gore, mild battle-shock, bad descriptions of dungeon/boss mechanics, some language, poly-sexuality, mental upset

I take the left side of the stairs while Sheik and Senza take the right in tandem. That particular configuration makes the most sense, since I’m the only one of us carrying a shield to bash the Bubble we all know is waiting at the top left. Senza gets both the Moa we knew was on the right, and the one that we didn’t know was against the ballroom’s mezzanine doors. Sheik douses the magic flames, and gathers up the Amber Relics left behind before they’ve stopped sizzling. Quick, confident, and effective. Beautiful. Both of them. Especially working together.

Goddess damn it, but right now is a particularly awkward time to notice that.

At least I know that I’m not _entirely_ shallow, now that another good friend has made the list of people I’m attracted to in a rather physical way. I think that might be the problem. I…like people. Interesting people. I’d kind of forgotten just how interesting Senza is, grew complacent with our friendship, and then took her for granted as a result. Just like I took electricity for granted.

Thankfully, I didn’t have to lose her to learn to appreciate her again…and be impressed by her skill with a bow.

I practiced with mine once a week, for maybe an hour, before all of this _mess_. What Sheik called the Resurgence of the Calamity. It’s like in the fairy tales mom used to read to me as a small child, when I was younger than Talo is now. Hopefully I wasn’t as much of a brat as he is, but it’s very possible. I didn’t believe in the Calamity then, and I still find the concept hard to believe now, but with monsters and technological disasters and that Goddess-forsaken _laughter_…it fits. Too well.

Senza must practice every day to be as proficient and deadly accurate as she, including a heavier pull weight than I can manage. Less testosterone from her anti-androgens means she has to really work for every gram of muscle, and she’s obviously put in the effort. I barely have time to register the squeal of another meat-eating rabbit-thing before her arrow makes it disappear, letting me close with the Bubble that is on patrol in the corner between the study hall and the master suite. Two bashes, three slashes, but no challenge. Barely an effort, really.

I’ve changed.

Firing arrows at the Hinox in the mall had me nearly wetting myself when it was all over, and I’m not the one who took it down. I didn’t even really do that much damage, managing to be an annoyance to it at best. Now, with Senza taking down the flying enemies and Sheik making sure they’re out, I can concentrate on the ones directly ahead of us without even breathing hard. I’m tired, yes, but if I’d have been able to take a nap when Sheik did, I’d be fine. Less sleep, less food – lesser _quality_ food – and a lot less social interaction than I’m used to hasn’t worn me down like I thought it would.

I _should_ have had a nap while cuddling with Sheik, but I didn’t _need _to, and that…that _laughter_ made resting impossible.

We need to make it stop. If only so I don’t go mad.

Senza’s master suite is a little bigger than my apartments back home, but only because the wardrobe used to be the chambermaid’s quarters and the bedroom expanded into the original dressing room. That dressing room is now where Senza’s bed is located. Next to Senza’s bed is a twitching, crouching, small figure that lets out either a chilling laugh or a series of broken sobs. Randomly. Louder than something that size should be able to manage.

I can pinpoint its location right away, but our arrival hasn’t disturbed it at all. The hair on the back of my neck rises and a chill runs down my spine even as the twitching stops. The oscillating cries don’t, swelling to fill the room and beyond. When Sheik shudders, it laughs.

Without breathing. It doesn’t move at all. Just laughs, and cries, and laughs. And laughs.

I feel the hairs on my arms rise along with the ones on my neck, and my lungs ache as I breathe in the sudden cold. It frosts the picture windows opening on to the small pleasure garden below, and with a tinkling crackle the left-most window first fractures, then shatters. The middle one follows, then the right, letting in a fine mist of precipitation too light to be called rain but enough to slick the floor all around the broken glass. While I’m standing there – hoping it won’t cost too much to repair the hardwood floors and replace the windows – the door slams shut behind Sheik, trapping us inside.

“Seriously? You tried that already. Show some creativity!” He complains, facing the figure by the bed and sounding as bored as everyone in Nima’s lecture hall twenty minutes in. Personally, I don’t mind being able to solve a new problem in the same way we solved the previous one, but as the figure stirs I know that defeating a series of lesser demons and monsters or block-puzzle games is _not_ what we’ll be facing this time around.

_This_ time we get to face the heart of the Corruption that is infecting Whittleton Manor, and keep it from spreading further into the city. Where Tetra is trapped, and needing me as badly as I need her. Her presence gave me comfort and strength to lean on when my mom died, and has been steadfast and sure, since. If the tidbits I can remember overhearing while mostly unconscious and bound up in some sort of malicious spell are true, that means she’s lost her mom _and_ her dad. And Claree. And maybe her brother-in-law. Possibly her sister, by now.

I need to be there for her, if only because I’m the _only_ one she has left. It would take Malon _weeks_ to get here, if she even knows something is _wrong_. Not being able to use any of my social media platforms or even bloody _call_ anyone leaves me jittery and worried. Constantly. I’m Tetra’s fiancé. It’s my _job_ to be there for her, supporting her…and I’m not. I can’t be, in any way at all. I’m here – only here, with no way to even check in that I’m okay or find out if she is, too – with Senza and Sheik, watching as a dead little girl around Luda’s age stands up, ready to fight us, trying not to lose my lunch.

She looks…pretty fresh.

Not fresh enough. Goddess.

This is _so wrong_, on so many levels, that it’s all I can manage to bear witness to her reanimation.

Just like I saw in the video of the Wizzrobe Sheik fought in the Savingway, she does not walk on the ground, but hovers in the air over our heads. Like the Wizzrobe, she too has a wand. Unlike the Wizzrobe, four empty canvases _materialize_ in each corner, leaving more puddles of Scourge on the floor to form a circular arena with a radius of approximately eight meters, taking up most of the room.

My heart picks up the pace as adrenaline surges through my veins, making everything sharper, crisper, clearer, anticipating some action.

Something that I can _do_. Now. No more waiting.

_Finally_.

When Senza tries to move behind one of the canvases, she can’t, the Scourge stinging and sticking to her clothes even though she didn’t commit to the step. Sheik tends to the residue quickly with his knife and a harmonic chime of magic too quick for me to catch anything but the echo, saving her leg but staining the shreds of her clothes with what looks a lot like dried blood. The same dried blood on his torn sleeve as his hands dance for a moment before the familiar hum of his magic crests and arches over all three of us in succession.

It’s a ponderous sound, with a rich timbre, and that brief analysis is all I have time for before the girl raises her wand and gathers her first strike. I can hear it burbling, rising like vomit, which makes mine all the more difficult to deny.

She’s slow. Or I may just be used to the speed with which Sheik casts his spells by now.

No matter which it is, I have plenty of time to counter, and quick step to raise my shield in front of Senza so I can deflect the wave of dark fluid that bursts from her wand. For one heart-stopping moment I fear that she’s attempting to flood the room with more of the Scourge that blocked the stairs, but it’s not the same texture, color, sound, or scent. More flowing liquid, less sticky muck. Ink, then, not putrefaction….though it still itches where it comes in contact with my bare skin.

It drips, thin and runny, from my shield and the canvases to pool on Senza’s floor, leaving the canvases filled with familiar sights when next I look. The Spire of the Water Temple in Lake Hylia is in the north-east. Death Mountain – the caldera faintly glowing – silhouetted against the sunset in the south-east. The Fortress of the Forest Temple cloisters at the end of a moss-covered path in the south-west, and the Seven Heroine statues guarding the Desert beneath a star-studded sky in the north-west.

In the time it takes me to recognize the locations depicted in each, Sheik has pulled out his marker and is compounding the insurance claim Senza will have to submit for the flooring. I trust that it’s necessary, and turn my attention back to our enemy. A little girl, dead, and half-rotten in decay. No, that’s wrong. I have to remember she’s a monster…a Corruption. Not a child any more, and not the true enemy.

I don’t think I can forgive the one responsible for her dreadful state, and it’s only years of experience in dealing with my rage that lets me handle it now. Feel the heat building, and focusing it into a distinct purpose. I’m no less angry. I just need to make sure that I hurt the right person, in a way that makes them understand _why_ their behavior is unacceptable. Hurting, torturing, _killing_ a child, _desecrating_ the remains…there’s no reason. No acceptable reason. Ever. And now I have to, or this…atrocity…will kill us all.

Even being trapped here is unacceptable. That means I have to fight. Anger gives me strength. Understanding gives me direction. Compassion means I’ll make it quick, if I can.

“Let’s play a game!” She giggles – still not breathing – and I don’t need to wait for the sound to turn to sobbing for the sorrow to come. This poor child. Empathy washes away most of my emotional turmoil as I check my grip on both sword and shield. Most of it.

The blazing golden wrath never leaves. I _will_ see that justice comes to those responsible, if given the opportunity. I _will _remember, no matter what, and do the best I can to ensure no other child suffers like this again.

“Play with me!” As she did after the unidentified bunny-monster tried to eat Sheik’s arm, she dashes through the air to disappear into the painting of the Forest Temple, the canvas acting exactly like a doorway. It is as though she is simply stepping outside the bedroom and able to interact with the portrayed environment – though Senza’s arrow bounces off the picture a second later – and vanishing behind a blossoming mulberry tree with an oddly familiar glissando.

“Fuck!” That sound’s familiar at this point, too.

“Language!” I gripe back. “There are children present!”

“That is _not _a child!” He protests, throwing up his arm without so much as wiggling the line he’s drawing. “That’s a Corrupted revenant, and we need to kill it.”

“Aren’t revenants already dead?” Senza chimes in, making both of Sheik’s hands fly into the air, marker still firmly in hand as he lets out a half-strangled groan of frustration.

“_Yes_. Conceptual semantics. Fuck, just…uh.” Wide eyed, I know the moment panic sets in, because he turns his head fast and hard enough to whip his braid through the air, and it has to weigh a couple kilograms at least. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, _shit_. Where’d it go?!”

That’s a bloody good question. There are four possible paintings to watch, and only three of us to do it, with no idea what we’re scanning for. Instinctively – and partially thanks to both years of swordsmanship training and Ashei’s recent reminders in the practice room – I put my back up against Sheik’s. Senza joins the huddle a heartbeat later, and none of us dare to so much as breathe as we wait for the first indications of the attack we all know is coming. Soon.

I don’t have to wait long, and we know it’s happening before Senza finishes drawing a breath to raise the alarm. With the way her muscles still before moving as she recognizes motion and her brain connects that to an attack, I have sufficient warning to move even as she lifts her bow and takes aim.

“There!” The word leaves her lips as the painting of the Water Temple surges to life. The waves ripple, taking on a hyper-realism defying standard perception. Fortunately, I know someone who can see things that I can’t, just like I can hear things beyond what he can. Like the lap of waves against the shore.

“Oh, sweet mother Hylia, run!” Sheik yelps, and absolutely books it one over to the puddle of ink in front of the still canvas of Death-Mountain, sliding through the mess as Senza and I join him, bringing his saturated hands up to fly through the air in a pattern I miss entirely.

I don’t miss the roar and crackle of a wall of flames that barely misses me, and hope that I still have my eyebrows as the corresponding wave of water crashes into it with a hiss. Billows of steam obscure my sight lines, but I don’t need to see to know that whatever Sheik did has got the revenant absolutely _livid_.

The scream of rage is a pretty clear indicator of that, and where it comes from is an even clearer indicator that she’s emerged from the painting again and is directly overhead.

“Down!” I bark out, clotheslining both Senza and Sheik to drag them with me as I drop, and not a moment too soon. The clouds swirl with the force of the wind passing from whatever was thrown at us, and clears the air of the steam in Senza’s bedroom-turned-battle arena.

“Ow. I think that was my spleen.” She groans, prompting me to roll off of her and unfortunately further onto Sheik. The widening of his eyes means I can’t stay there, and latch on and keep rolling just in time to dodge the bolt of pure inky Malice that obliterates the last of Sheik’s marker circles. Not that landing on them and sliding through them did them any favors, but that definitely finished the whole thing off.

“Holy fuck!” He squeaks, uninjured, and I use my momentum to get to my feet and return a blow if I can.

I can. My blade bites into flesh, tearing through skin and sinew, skidding along bone. It is _not_ a clean strike. Against what all my senses are telling me is a child.

She cries out at the injury, disappears into the Fortress again, and weeps. Great, tearing sobs echo from the painting, only to split into the most awful surround sound possible from all four canvases, because I did this. It’s my fault. A little girl is horrendously injured and bawling from the pain I inflicted. Alone, without a friend in the world. Weeping with her whole heart, as only children can.

It’s the most ghastly feeling, knowing that I need to do it again. That my life is not the only one on the line if I fail to stop her, here and now. That hers is already over before it had a chance to truly begin.

Sheik called her a Corrupted revenant. An “it”. That makes it easier to check my grip on my weapons and wait for the sound of wailing to become mono-directional once more. No words are needed as the leaves of the trees in the painting of the Forest Temple rustle and Sheik dips his hands in the ink on the floor. We move as one, urgent, but not frantic as we develop a pattern of combat that leaves no one exposed and maximizes our strengths.

A scouring wind rips deep gouges in the sandstone pillar Sheik conjures from the same ink that fuels the revenant’s weaponry, and this time my hit is clean. And deep. And hard. Hard enough that whatever keeps her animated loses its hold on the corpse for a moment, and I see her for the girl she once was and not the monster she’s become.

Neither excessively ugly nor especially attractive, she is…was…just a girl. Half-Hylian from the ears. Blue hair. Deep blue eyes, nearly purple. A red-trimmed black and grey middle school uniform a lot like Luda’s. She looks at me, tears running down both cheeks…

…and then she’s a monster again. Grey and grotesque and laughing as she rises and returns to the paintings. The Water Temple, this time.

“Um, Link?” Senza chokes, grabbing my attention as Sheik carefully places a light purple bead onto the cord he has strung in his hair. One of the cords. That one looks remarkably like a shoelace. Five other beads lie scattered on the floor around him, and when he stoops to pick them up I can see his face is wet.

If he sees more than I can, then he knows what we’re facing, and what we have to do.

“We need to kill it.” The rasp in his voice conveys all the gravity of deliberately discussing the intentional murder of a hapless child.

“But it’s already…” Senza begins.

“More like parasiticide or virucide, not pedicide.” The clarification helps Senza, since she quiets and nods, but not me. I know enough Latin to figure it out after a moment, though. Then we’re out of time.

The effort Sheik has to be putting in to counter-act the revenant’s magic must be considerable, because his conjuring consistently overwhelms hers, no matter which elements are in opposition. The smell of ozone and crackle of his converter help me build evidence for that conclusion, as does the sweat starting to soak his hair wraps, lower back, chest, and underarms. Not that I’m not sweating, but it’s not heavy enough to soak through my clothing. At least, not yet.

With the fall of the waterspout’s surge, though – as I get in another clean, but shallow, strike – Senza manages to hit the painting that the monster was about to use to hide, and the entire canvas goes blank once again, even as the ink in front of it dries up. The entire thing erupts in magical flames, and crumbles into the same kind of ash that filled the sky at the start of all this.

That…could be bad.

“Oops.” She winces as Sheik starts swearing under his breath. “Uh, hopefully it works the other way, too?”

“Either you’re right or we’re dead.” Sheik grumbles. “So don’t miss your chance if it picks that one to come out of.”

“I won’t.” She promises. Two interchanges later, both wind and sand, she proves herself with a bolt straight into the heart of the first shift of smoke, and the canvas painted with Death Mountain goes blank as well. It’s much harder to shoot through a whirlwind or a sandstone block, and she misses three times as I miss, hit, and miss myself. Not that keeping the monster where I can hit it is crucial, since Sheik’s next pillar crumbles along with his knees.

“I’m fine!” He gasps before either of us can duck down and check, and I have to trust him. I do trust him. Fine is not good, but it’s not a call for help, either. He won’t be able to get up in time to trigger another shield for us, though, so I have to move, and move fast. Senza’s a good archer, but the elemental effects she’s dealing with means a killing shot is next to impossible to…uh…execute.

It’s an excellent pun, but I dare not laugh, let alone share it. With Sheik’s magic depleted, we’re out of time and out of options. This next exchange, someone will die.

I have to protect them…so I have to be the one to end it. I _have_ to, or we’ll be either crushed to death or cut to ribbons, depending on which portrait is picked. Neither option is acceptable.

The air stirs.

I move.

Mortal danger seems to get a biochemical cocktail going in me that sends lightning through my veins instead of blood, letting me move faster, stronger, harder, better than I could even dream of, normally.

My shield weighs nothing.

My sword seems to move on its own.

Faster than thought. Faster than sound. Faster than gravity. Before my sword arm can register the pressure of a clean blow reverberating down my blade, it’s over. I’ve done it. It’s over.

It’s _over_.

Time speeds back up, and gravity comes down. As with all the monsters I’ve come across, there is no blood, no gore when both of the twitchingl halves of the body of a little girl hits the floor and bounce – twice – before staying still.

It’s quiet. Utterly, completely silent. No one even breathes.

An atavistic chill shoots down my spine, and then Senza is breathing and her heart is beating and I’m breathing and my heart is beating and Sheik is breathing and his heart is beating and a dozen beeps and chimes and alarms ring as generators kick on and the electric lights blind me and the whoosh of the furnace hums into high gear.

Deafening. Disorienting. Dizzying. I dare not drop my sword, and I cannot sheath it without cleaning it first. I can’t lower my shield, some part of me waiting for the next challenge, the next attack, and the next enemy.

My last foe is dissolving into corrupt smoke and ash on the floor. A half-Hylian child who went to Maple’s Middle School for Girls, class 2-B, according to the patch on her uniform pocket. Irene P.

In moments, all that is left is a pair of decorative leather bracers, six golden glowing beads, a fine chain necklace with a large pendant, and a ringing, shining, delicate glass heart.

Senza moves first, picking up the Whittleton necklace and putting it on.

“Oh. Okay.” Murmuring, she wavers, then moves to tend to Sheik who gasps as her skin touches his. “A gift.” She whispers. “Thank you. Thank you both.” With care, she returns to the pile and takes up the glass heart as Sheik gets to his feet, steadier on them than I feel on mine.

The heart she brings to me.

I stare at it as it glistens in her hands, and feel faint. Woozy.

“Here, allow me, my Lord.” Sheik bows, and slides the hilt of my sword from my hand to clean the blade on the remains of his shirt. I stare after him, unable to move. Unable to speak. Unable to process…_unwilling_ to process that I just killed a child, guilty of no more than being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Abused…_used_…by the wrong people.

None of the legends, none of the _histories_, mentioned _this_…and it’s utterly atrocious.

“We won.” Senza says, taking my free hand in hers, offering the heart in the other, and I find I can speak.

Well, choke.

“It doesn’t feel like a victory.” The words release the floodgates, and I cry. I cry for a young life snuffed out too early. I cry for the indignities perpetrated on her remains, afterward. I cry for Senza and her staff, who must live with the knowledge of what happened here from now on. I cry for Sheik, who saw it all.

I cry for myself, for losing something that feels a lot like innocence. I cry until I retch, sicking up everything I’ve eaten today, then bile, until I taste blood and smell ozone and hints of chocolate, and see darkness mid-afternoon.

When I wake, my face hurts. My nose is swollen, my eyes are sore, my jaw aches, and my skin is covered in unpleasantly crusted fluids. I feel bruised from ankle to shoulder, and tired, and devastated, and my entire side is numb from resting in a half-sitting position against Sheik’s shoulder. Knuckling some of the crud from my eyelashes, I blink, and see the dresser he’s leaning against in turn. Hear Senza sweeping up the broken glass. Bury my face in his shoulder and breathe.

Just…breathe.

He lets me, for which I will be forever grateful. Rubs my back and hums, rocking, just like he did with Malo. I know, now, why a notoriously cranky baby was soothed enough to not only fall asleep in his arms, but deliberately seek him out again, later. He understands pain...and lets it be what it needs to be. Not that he lets me wallow in it.

“You’re heavy.” He murmurs when I’ve gone as numb inside as I have in my extremities. “Get off.”

“You’re comfy.” I insist, rubbing my face against his throat. It prickles. We both need to shave. I need to wash my face. He needs to wash his hands. My jacket is ruined, though it is still functional. Unlike his shirt. That hangs in rags from his arm, and is crusted with dried blood. As are his pants. They’ll need to be thrown out or burned when they come off.

I…want them off. Now. Want to see what lies beneath. Want to touch. To taste. To crawl over him, inspecting every inch of his tan skin. Hitch his legs around my waist. Prove that we’re _alive_.

Instead, I settle for kissing the juncture of his shoulder and neck, licking at the salt gathered there, and chewing on him, just a little. Leaving a nice, red mark to darken over the next few days and show everyone who sees it that he’s mine. He arches beneath me, whining, even as his arms hold me in place and his knees rise on either side of my hips.

“Not in my room!” Senza shouts. “Not unless I’m included!”

“Mm. Wait, wait.” Sheik breathes. He’s right. So is Senza. I wouldn’t mind if she came and joined us, but I know that he would. So we can’t. Any of us. It would be rude, no matter what.

A “wait” isn’t a “no” though. Just a “not yet”. I can deal with that. I really should wash the sticky crust off my chin and cheek and rinse my mouth out before kissing him, anyway, but I just _like_ kissing him.

I don’t _need_ to kiss him in order to love him.

He’s still light enough and thin enough that even with my right side asleep, I can pick him up off the floor and lift him over my shoulder to go and find a different bedroom. Or a couch. Even a thick carpet, really. I’m not picky.

“What…Link! Put me down!” He yelps, startling a bark of laughter from Senza. “No! Stop it! Link! Wait just one fucking minute, you arrogant Hylian bastard! Put me _down_!”

Oh.

Oops.

That’s pretty damn clear, as are the three steps he takes away from me the moment I set him back on the floor. I…still need him. Badly. Goddess, very badly. Not touching him has me fidgeting and fighting the urge with everything I have to just grab him up again and _make_ him want it as much as I do. Make him want me like I want him. Spread him open and _take_...but that’s wrong.

I can’t.

I _won’t_.

Not after the promise I made to him, and not after fighting against this _very_ thing from the _very_ start. Against everyone, both those encouraging it and those that were just complicit. Against the insidious, manipulative magic that drew me to him like a magnet. My hands itch to touch him, and the pressure low in my gut is nearly unbearable, but…he’s a person, not a thing in which to slake my desires.

A very beautiful person. Interesting, too. I know exactly where my urges are coming from, and unlike the first weeks with him, it’s all me. All of it. I’m focused intensely enough on him that his melody rings loud and clear as the chiming of the glass heart he holds in both hands that he got from the floor where we were sitting. Eyes downcast, curling in on himself. Almost…shy.

“This…this is for you.” My Sheik whispers hoarsely, before clearing his throat and straightening his spine. “She wanted you to have it.”

“It’s her house.” I protest, wary and still more than a little distraught at the reminder. “She should…”

“Not Lady Senza.” Sheik interrupts, shaking his head. “Irene. The…she…it’s…this is for you.” He insists, holding the heart in both hands and extending it towards me. It’s…the right size for a girl her age. The thought nearly makes me vomit. Again, despite having nothing left. Sheik sighs, looking up at me with red eyes that shimmer and shine, slightly darker than the heart he holds in his hands. It’s…the wrong shape for an actual heart. It doesn’t pulse or beat. Only…sparkles, a little, and rings out a clear harmonic tone that helps me relax my jaw. Then my neck. Then my shoulders.

Sheik steps closer, close enough that even though he’s drawn the…remains…close to his core, it brushes against my chest at the same time as his delicate fingers do. Gathering my courage, comforted by his presence, I can lift my arms to curl one around his waist, and drop my palm over his offering.

:_Thank you. Thank you. Thank you._:

The words reverberate through my head in a childish treble unbroken by screaming or sobbing, and this time, my tears bring peace. The heart warms me gently from the inside out, soothing the broken bits of my…soul. I think. I don’t know what else to call it. Sheik’s graceful hands brush away the last of my tears, and his lips on mine are so very gentle I dare not breathe lest that touch shatter. He chuckles softly as he pulls back with a grin.

“So, do you still not believe in ghosts? He asks, teasing. At least, I think he’s teasing. I don’t think I’m _that_ hard to convince. After today – being presented with enough personal testimony to make even the most hard-core skeptic reconsider – I…still have no evidence. At all. Then he snickers, shaking against me in mirth rather than fear or frustration.

“Oh…you…Holy Hylia! Damn it, Sheik!” I complain, and Senza laughs. We have some clean up to do, a bit of preparation, and I want to sleep. And eat. Then sleep again, but tomorrow…tomorrow we can go. Early. Hopefully early enough to find Tetra, and help her, and set everything right. She’ll know what to do, and none of us are afraid of a little work to make it happen.

But first…I need to gargle, then find an unoccupied bedroom and prove not only that I’m alive, but that I meant what I said to Sheik last night as he left to check on the Bokoblins. Sleep will just have to wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear loyal fans of my writing style and/or emotional masochism; I have as of this point completed writing the Unleavened portion of The Calamity is Calling and are you in for a treat!  
By treat I mean I felt cute, so I thought I'd buckle down and emotionally devastate myself with my own writing...and now I get to edit it. Repeatedly.  
16/33 chapters posted, darlings. <3 Time to start fleshing out the extremely vague outlines I have for the rest of the still unnamed next part so I can make myself feel better...then edit. And edit. And edit again.
> 
> Thanks for clicking, and thanks for reading!


	17. A Return to Normalcy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Link isn't the only one to have trauma responses. Sheik's are just a little more hardwired.  
Sheik's POV...not sure if that should be a warning in and of itself at this point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: Victim Blaming, (self) Body-Shaming  
Warnings: sexual arousal, pain-kink, language, how did this clock in at ten pages omfg

Why in the name of oversize, neon, glow-in-the-dark dildos Lady Senza decided that I was the appropriate person to give the leather archer’s bracers to is about as confusing to me as a ball rolling behind a couch is to a baby who is just learning about object permanence. I’m the only one in our little band lacking both a bow and the skills required to regularly hit a target using one, ergo, what the entire girthy fuck? _Either_ of them would have been a better choice, and it’s not like I wasn’t rewarded for my participation with something better than a little plastic piece of shit trophy or polyester ribbon proclaiming I existed at the time.

I’m alive. Link’s alive. Lady Senza’s alive. Getting to see another day is reward enough for me, and we all get to do it. I don’t need a physical trinket to trauma-bond with, let alone commemorate our survival. We’re _alive_. That’s three hundred percent better than my projected outcome at the start of this little adventure, which means I’ve definitely got to be recalibrated. Somehow.

The coffee is an _excellent_ place to start.

With _carte blanche _access to Lady Senza’s provisions and a fully modernized kitchen at his disposal, my master is going H.A.M. making ham. And biscuits. And roasted root vegetables. And soup. And cookies. Because he can, and because he has an appetite that would shame a bear. I’d be happy with just _one_ of the things currently being heated and mixed and glazed and stirred. Saints and Sages, just _coffee _– hot and bitter and more comforting than a box full of clean, warm blankets – has me feeling semi-civilized and content enough to just sit and sip and not have to move as Link scuttles around cooking. Or pretending to know how to cook. Mostly.

The phone lines are still down, as is access to the internet, but the power is up and running, alongside the water and gas. I have to assume that the same thing happened in Korokshire when we defeated the Bloat. The whole dissipation of the concentrated pockets of Malice and restoration of the Champion’s Barrier followed immediately by the blatant return of services was my first clue, leading me to think that one of the properties of Malice is to interfere with both normal and paranormal physics.

As pet theories go, I’ll call this one Squishy, and it will be mine. It could simply be correlation…but I don’t think so. I do need more evidence to support it. If I stay by Link’s side – and figure out a way to get a video camera to work in close proximity to said Malice – that will happen. I think. As it stands, I _think_ I got to see some of the Hero’s magic in a real time, high definition, interactive, surround sound, live-action presentation.

That possibility has got me smiling into my mug and not giving a single flaming fuck that my emotions are on full display. I’m _happy_. Senza’s happy. Link’s obviously pulled out of the despair following his first kill. Eerily quickly, if I’m being honest. I mean, seriously. He’s fucking _singing_ some cliché bubble-gum pop song about dancing the night away that was on the top ten charts for months a few years ago. I know most of the words as a result, but don’t join in. My voice is simply acceptable. His is rich and full and so fucking _pleased_ I don’t even need to side-eye him to know his mood.

The way he moves to the beat isn’t helping me not notice, either. I noticed. Oh, did I notice. A bowl of mushy peas would sit-up and take notice. I’m the polar opposite of mushy. The proof is pointing slightly to the right of magnetic north.

As soon as the water heater’s full again – after Lady Senza and Link are done showering – I’m going to need to take every precaution in the book and scrub my skin as raw as he was about to fuck me on her bedroom floor, because good and holy Hylia do I need it. I did _not_ mean to stop that from happening. No, sir. I just wanted to tweak the circumstances around _how_ it happened. That little misunderstanding was entirely my fault. I wanted to stand on my own two feet, and maybe find some lube, and so I had to open my mouth and let the dipshit fall out. Some help that was, genius.

Blessed Nayru’s golden piss, Kaya, when will you learn to fucking _shut up_?

So I’m a fool, but I’m a warm fool, with an oversized mug of coffee in my hands and some dubious life choices under my belt…what’s left of my belt. Fuck, most of my clothing is more tattered than my memory, and Lady Senza hasn’t the first clue about where I’d find a needle and thread. The durian icing on the civet cat cake is the fact I stink. And am covered with my own mostly dried blood.

It’s off putting, to say the least, and I find that – stomach churning as it is – I want to…be pretty. More than just clean and not hurting, I want to look good, and with the way my face is shaped that leaves me only one option. I really, actually, truly _want_ that Goddesses’ given “gift” that has behaved like a fucking curse for as long as I can remember. To be _pretty_. For him.

My face has caused me nothing but problems from the moment I left the Training Grounds. It’s the first thing my first foster family commented on, and the only reason the Donavitches took me in after a difference in philosophy ensured that the first few families didn’t work out. Mr. Donavitch was so fucking disappointed when he climbed into my bed that night and discovered Sir Dorian did have both my genitals and pronouns right, though Janitor Rusl was the first one to not give a flying fuck what he fucked.

Then he brought friends. Friends who _liked_ the way I looked, who had friends who would pay good money for it. Not that I saw much of it, though I did get a place to sleep, food to eat, and enough dick to satisfy a teenage libido. I picked up how to satisfy beyond satiation, and get, perhaps, a little extra cash or food or peace. But even then, I learned it was safer to stay unnoticed than to have to deal with everything that comes with being young and poor and alone and violet and a damn spook along with being attractive.

Being fucking _pretty_.

And now I find myself _wanting_ it, and hating myself for it, but it’s the only face I’ve got and I might as well use it. It _does_ get me shit as well as getting me in shit. That’s easy as falling downhill. Fucking predictable. Just have to act like you want it – because _of course_ you do, you stupid slut – or at least aren’t opposed enough to fight. Fighting just makes it harder, so it’s better to go with it so they can remember lube exists.

Maybe tease a little, show a little skin to get them riled up and get it over faster, and then submit. Hope it doesn’t hurt too much. Hope it hurts enough that I stop craving it. Fucking hope. But I need to be pretty for that to work. Rusl presented me with that particular learning opportunity, and I took it with both hands and a full belly for the first time in a week. I only had to swallow.

Spitters are quitters, after all. Chin up. Tongue out. That’s nice.

There’s nothing I can do about my new facial markings, but everything else about me can be tidied, if not fixed. At least physically. Washed, combed, and shaved so I don’t stink, snarl, or snag on anything when he feels like getting back on top of me to finish the job. Be _pretty_, and be ready for what happens when you’re pretty.

And I _need_ to be pretty, so that Link will like me. He said he loved me, but I know better. He wasn’t thinking clearly when he said it – his colors all muddled and murky – and hasn’t fucked me for a week. A week where I haven’t been pretty, haven’t even been ready for him. Not since I sucked him off after not being ready for him. I’m supposed to be ready, and I wasn’t. Again. The realization has my heart go from sitting like a leaden lump in my chest to plummeting through my stomach to sit low in my guts, taking all my caffeine-induced euphoria with it.

I want to be pretty – because I want to be liked by the one person who’s honestly given a hot battered and fried damn about me – when being pretty has been directly responsible for things that I still can’t think about without going catatonic.

Good shit am I fucked up.

Not that that’s surprising, given how often other people have told me I am. Of course, I think a lot of them are just as delusional, if not worse. I don’t know what _that_ means. I just know that this feeling is new and different and scary and _that_ means I want to panic and know I shouldn’t. There’s no real reason to. Nothing’s _changed_, aside from my perception. So I sit, and listen, and shake as I sip at my coffee mug with both hands to keep from spilling it until it’s all gone. More caffeine is probably a bad idea, since there are no answers in the bottom of any beverage.

That doesn’t mean I can move, and I don’t have even the courage of a misconceived lemming at the edge of a cliff. I can’t even _think_ about it, so talking about it doesn’t enter the realm of possibility no matter how many iterations of alternate universes I can fathom.

Moving would help. If I can have the illusion of being productive, I don’t have to feel guilty for ignoring the problems I can’t deal with. I _can’t_. There’s a reason I managed to read the entire Encyclopedia of the Esoteric twice over by the time I was sixteen. The Hyrule Compendium was only nine volumes. A History of Violence in Lorule, thirty-nine volumes. The Complete Works of the Sage Sahasrahla took me less than a week. All my voracious appetite for books has taught me is that Neil deGrasse Tyson was right.

The larger my areas of knowledge grow, the greater my perimeter of ignorance becomes. My inability to access the information from my brain in the heat of the moment about the bunny-leech thing – a Pols Voice, now that I’ve had time to breathe – nearly got me killed…so what else have I forgotten that I need to know?

Probably enough to fill a small library, honestly. Definitely enough for a thick legal-file in the Crown vs Rusl Schmidt and the Crown vs Jim Barnes binders. Not enough, in those cases, and too much for right now, and now is what’s important. If the internet is down, my companions ignorant, with no access to a proper library, and the Gossip populated by those that have fallen to the Corruption of Malice, I only have one other place to turn. I’ve missed going to Temple for the last two weeks, but congregating for ritual practice is just that. Practice.

I know how to get on my knees. To suck a dick or to pray. More importantly, I know how to bitch-slap my hubris upside the head, and _listen_. Closing my eyes, bowing my head, breathing deeply, I do.

_What do I need to know?_

Sending the question out to whoever is listening, I do know better than to expect a direct answer. That’s not how it works. Nayru – or Someone Else – will answer me in Their own time and own way. Or not. But asking lets me find my question in the first place. A line of inquiry on which to base my thesis. What _do_ I need to know?

Nothing, really. In the grand scheme of things, I’m not even a footnote of a footnote in an aside. Link is the one that matters. He and Hilda. The Hero and the Princess of Hylia’s line who will become Queen. They’re the ones the world needs right now. Not me. Thank the sweet sugar-sprinkled fuck.

If I didn’t know better, I’d swear I wet myself in relief at reaffirming my insignificance. Not that pissing myself would make me need a shower any more than I already do. Maybe less. Urine isn’t sterile even in the healthiest person, but at least it isn’t chunky, and might rinse away some of the clotted blood soaked into the fabric of my shredded clothing.

By the hundred little gods, forget being pretty for Link. I need to not be disgusting for my own sake, first. Once that happens – if I can just ignore the P.T.S.D. – it’ll be fine. Everything will be fine.

Maybe one more cup of coffee.

By the time I’ve swallowed the last of my bitterness – both literally and metaphorically speaking – and have rinsed out my mug, Link has a whole half-dozen biscuits done. He just needs to scrape them off the pan a little, but they’re otherwise as perfectly flakey as he is.

“I’m going to go shower.” I tell him as he sets the remains of his burnt offerings to soak…just like I intend to. I’ll figure clothing out after, but I _need_ to be clean. Now. Senza should be finished, and he’ll be puttering for a while yet, so I should have both the time and water. I don’t know how much more I can take while I’m itching like an anti-vaxxer’s infant and there’s a simple solution just down the hall. He dries his hands and hops the counter to catch me at the door.

Literally.

His hands slide around my waist and spin so he can lift me clear off my feet and press me to the wall, turning the overhead lights out with my spine. I don’t want to fall, and cling to him in return as he decides that he wants to eat right at this very moment and my mouth is the main course. I’m…starting to like this kissing thing, a bit. Sort of. It’s still kind of gross – what with the spit swapping and all – but it doesn’t…hurt. Ever. Maybe tickles a bit. I’m _really_ liking the way his fingers grab onto my ass and dance along my crack with enough pressure to hover on a bruise, though.

The one that runs right over my hole through the seam of my pants has me making the manliest squeaking noises I can and wrapping my legs around his hips, because there’s oil in the cupboard and oh Holy fucking Farore _yes_ please AND thank you. All the low-interest long-term deposits I’ve made in my personal spank-bank towards eventually being held in place and fucked against a wall are finally coming to term. Kahti doesn’t count. He’s fucked me while we’re both standing, yeah, but he’s not strong enough to hold me up and deny the pull of gravity. To turn his cock into my axis mundi.

Link is.

And here I was, worried he wasn’t fucking me because I wasn’t pretty enough. Shows what I know.

With that finger pressing harder now that he’s found what he’s looking for, he tilts his head and lets me pant. I moan like a whale searching for their pod-mates as he bites my neck. Hard. _Yes_. Soothes the sudden rush of blood to the area with his tongue. Sucks on it, leaving another hicky worthy of a Dyson next to the last. Tasting all the filth the day has coated me with, and wincing. Resting his forehead against mine and looking me dead in the eyes.

“Go clean yourself up.” He groans. “_Really_ _well_.”

“Uh-huh.” I whine, wanting to stay right here and finish us both off, but he’s right. Damn it, he’s right, and the shower is all the way down the damn hallway past enough rubble to nest a waddle of penguins.

"Leave your hair down.” That’s an order, and even though I don’t _have _to obey it, if it means that he’ll…

The doorbell rings in a lofty pattern of pleasant chimes, startling us both, and it takes me an embarrassingly long time to process what just happened. All I know is his fingers stop playing me like the cello in the music room, and his head hits the wall over my shoulder and behind the crook of my neck with a thunk that’s almost as loud as his groan. His breath washes over my throat, which really doesn’t help with the not fucking here and now thing. Goddesses.

“Damn it.” His hazy, amber-resin disappointment covers him like a cloak as he lets me go, and I can’t say I’m at all pleased about the interruption, either. With one additional, quick nip over my newest bruise, he goes to join Lady Senza as they officially welcome her retainers and staff back home. I let my own head hit the wall and bite my lip to keep from groaning out loud and resist the urge to touch myself so I can follow him, instead.

The view is still very, very nice.

Aside from looking like I was dragged face first through the Dark Realm and then caught masturbating to adult cartoons, I’m mostly presentable as Senza’s cavalry floods in and immediately starts setting Whittleton Manor to rights. The way it should be. That doesn’t include some random spook roaming the halls like a demented specter of the Calamity Returned. I’d forgotten that particular tenant of polite society.

Living with Link’s gotten me more spoiled than the sludge in the walk-in fridge that leaves half the kitchen staff retching as though they’re performing a purely vocal form of dubstep. I snag one of Link’s biscuits before the batch is tossed in the compost, and fuck-off purely out of some deeply buried sense of self-preservation. They probably wouldn’t be as blatantly staring at me if I wasn’t – _still_ – as filthy as the inside of a century old septic tank. Probably.

I go find a shower, automatically moving as silently and unobtrusively as I can through the halls, and step into the cool water fully clothed. Then I scrub, and pray that I’ll be able to salvage enough of my clothing to avoid public nudity charges once I’m done.

I’m shivering like a leaf in a hurricane by the time my sleeve has turned from black through rust to brick, and dare not risk further friction in case the fabric disintegrates entirely. Wring the shirt out. Leave it on the counter to dry. Sort of. I leave the canvas pants sopping into the sink before turning the water to warm in an attempt to deal with my overly spook ass. And face. And hair. And skin. And everything.

Good fucking luck, Kaya. Even if you scrubbed to the bone, any decent forensic anthropologist would be able to tell exactly what you are. Like you could ever forget.

The crotchety old wind-bag huffing at the door can wait one damn minute while I regret not somehow packing conditioner or a comb. Or not. If he’s going to use a master key to peep on me, I should charge him by the half-hour. He turns an interesting shade of puce repulsion with his success, and Link would be proud of me for only raising an eyebrow and a finger each instead of cussing like I want to. I locked the door behind me for a reason.

Mostly to not feel quite so vulnerable, but I forgot I was a violet spook in the Capital City of Hyrule and therefore don’t deserve the same dignity as roadkill.

The dick-headed eye-bag needs to trim his mustache better if he’s going to hold up his nose like that.

“Her Grace the Lady Kelly Senza of Whittleton bids you attend her in the grand hall for dinner.” He huffs, two extra-long hairs in his right nostril flailing like a whacky waving inflatable tube man advertisement for coarse grit sandpaper underpants. If I’d been paying more attention to what he said instead of that – and trying to come up with a suitable nickname since he didn’t give me his real one – I could have saved Link some embarrassment.

Because he didn’t say “join”, he said “attend”, and that’s a different ball game entirely.

I should have eaten the only slightly burnt and squished biscuit instead of pocketing it, but now there’s no time, and my technicolor travesty of an existence has a soup course to clear and an actual white-knuckle-propriety hot vegetable entrée to serve. Then the salad, followed by the ham my master started, but has clearly been finished and presented by a professional. Glazed and carved and balanced in perfectly plated portions for the highest ranking snotcicles sitting around the head table, making Link increasingly uncomfortable and Lady Senza disconcerted on his behalf.

I might look like a poorly placed extra in a Re-Dead movie, but I can wait a table for a full formal dinner with my eyes closed. Not that I close them, of course. Now that I’m only _mostly_ – and entirely voluntarily – Link’s, I will need to counsel him on the reactions of both those beneath him in station, and those of equal rank. Best to observe them now, so I can get their measure before they see me as anything worthy of caution. So I watch, and I listen, and learn very little of consequence beyond the names of the faces that sneer in my general direction. There aren’t many, but there are enough.

Caution, discretion, and perfection, Kaya. Do it. Be it. Take it all in.

By the time dessert rolls around I know my place amid Lady Senza’s servants to a T, and neatly make my escape from their patterns before Mr. Linebeck can rope me into doing another chore for him without providing any form of compensation. Fuck that noise. I’m Link’s bitch, not Mr. Linebeck’s. I even know – because servants gossip and there’s not much else to talk about at the moment – which room Link has been assigned, and can try to untangle my hair there.

With my fingers. In the dark, because a light would alert any one of the myriad minions bustling about that I’m sulking like a child and not pulling my weight with my share of the restoration work. And Link’s, because he’s her Grace the Lady Senza’s honored guest and I’m his body servant/advisor/body guard/whore. Because a single syllable “Sheik” is too fucking hard to learn to say, let alone understand.

_Fucking Hylians._

My pants are still damp, and so is the biscuit I put in my pocket. And my hair. I refuse to make my face count in that category, even if I am alone and can keep it quiet. Extra quiet, because I may be alone, but I’m not alone enough. It’s not worth the energy to muffle, or Stifle, and Nayru knows it won’t change a damn thing. A bit of gnawing gives me something to fill the void in my gut, and there’s plenty of space in the room – the guest suite nearly the size of Link’s apartments in Korokshire – so to save him the discomfort of lying in someone else’s wet spot, I curl up on the couch to sleep.

It’s a better bed than a lot of the places I’ve crashed, and doesn’t take me long to drop off.

“Get up.” I have about the same amount of time Rusl used to give me to respond to the gruff order, and get to first make close acquaintance with the carpet before seeing the dust bunnies under the couch as Mr. Linebeck uses my scraggly, finger-combed braid like reins to haul me off the cushions and onto the floor. “You can’t sleep there. There’s a bed.”

He doesn’t mean the nice king-sized feather-topped mattress covered by Gerudo cotton sheets and enough cushions for an all-out international pillow war. No. Of course not. It’s not like Link’s been using me as a life-sized stuffed toy every night since we fucking met, either. Not that I’ve gotten so used to it that I expect it or anything. No. Not at all. Crave, yes, but I know better than to _expect_ anything. Instead, I get dragged downstairs and shown a folded plastic cot in the off-season linen closet, nearly identical to the one Rusl bought for the shed in the first half of my high school freshman year.

Mostly so he and a few of his friends didn’t have to fuck me on the table anymore. Rusl had to work there, and he kept getting pissed whenever they just pushed his stuff off to make room to lay me out. Not that Nostrilization here has any intentions of touching me more than he absolutely has to, now that I’m awake again and moving. And hungry. Din damn it.

I was hoping to avoid that. I can sleep right through the pangs of an empty stomach if I can just be unconscious before they hit. I’ve have had plenty of practice at making sleep for supper. It’s one of my best recipes. Just like I’ve had plenty of practice sleeping in a place that sends my stomach churning and heart racing for reasons that I can’t fathom. That I don’t _want_ to, because I _know _it has something to do with the gaps in my memories, and from what I _do_ remember, well…I’m happy not remembering.

Since I’ve been _not_ remembering and _not_ on the verge of just dropping where I am for a good ten minutes, I’ll take my nice double portion of soft-serve vanilla bullshit and be grateful for the privacy the linen closet provides. That still doesn’t mean I’ll be able to sleep on the cot itself, and even thinking about using a shelf makes my jitters worse, so the floor it is.

The closet is warm, and more spacious than the tent-baggie. I have my Silver Scale, converter, beads, and I.D. cards. I’m as clean as I can be without a change of clothing while this set dries. It’s quiet, and dark, and Link has successfully restored another portion of the Champion’s Barrier. Only five left to cleanse, presumably. There’s absolutely no reason for him to require my presence, but Nayru’s never pulled on me _this _strongly or suddenly before. My Vessel of Tears switches on like the lights did, nearly blinding me.

I have to go.

I didn’t even get to lie down.

The call hauls me down the same corridor the Like-Likes nested in, back up the super sketchy wooden stairs that now qualify as the most dangerous thing in the Manor, through the battle-scarred ballroom – I totally did not mean to char the floor like that, or the wall for that matter – and down the hall of guest rooms back to the one Link was assigned.

I can hear him growling at Nostrilization from three rooms away, but can’t make anything out until I get to the door. Which is locked. Of course it is. My life in a nut-sack. Fuck, disassembling the Scourge of Malice was easier for a spook like me to do than breaking down a solid mahogany panel that’s twice my height and three times my weight, and Lady Senza would be pissed if I burned or exploded it.

Not as pissed as Link is right now, though.

“…is, or so help me, I will have _words_ with Senza that will see you thrown on the street with as much notice! You wouldn’t treat a _dog_ like that! He’s my _Sheik_!”

“Your Grace, I…” Schnozz-floss yelps, but Link is in full Lizalfos-from-the-deep stompy tantrum mode and won’t stop until all of Zora’s Doman is destroyed.

I think I’m flattered.

“Where. Is. He?” My master snarls, and the Vessel of Tears on my wrist lights up like the noon-day sun is said to set the waters of Pinnacle Rock ablaze on the summer solstice. Actually – temporarily – blinding. Warm. Buoyant. It…reminds me of the first time I managed to join with the Conclave in Gossip, except that was cold, and faint, and hollow. Like comparing the Sun and a single white dwarf star. They’re both stars, but only one is responsible for the existence of life on this planet. “Answer me, Linebeck!”

My left hand rises of its own volition, and I have a mercifully brief moment of stark, stomach churning terror before I recognize the motion I’ve just made. It’s not nearly as complex as any spell-forms after the third grade, but it _is_ practiced, and purposeful, and just as potentially deadly. That’s how you draw a sword, but with my off-hand. I haven’t done it in years, and am not certain why it’s happening now. Without my input, accompanying the physical proof completing the Trials left me to…left us.

My off-hand is Link’s dominant. He was there, too. It was for him. I was the prize….apparently more than just immediately afterward. A tool. I think he just drew his sword to threaten Mr. Linebeck, who was only doing his job.

Okay then. Not flattered. Not flattered at _all_.

He’s the _fucking_ Hero. The wielder of the Blade of Evil’s Bane, even though he has yet to find it. Courage incarnate…who’s had an incredibly stressful day. Maybe he’s not handling his first kill as well as I thought…though that death was not only warranted, but needed. And welcomed.

He cannot kill an innocent and retain that blessing, even if that innocent is also a pompous douche-nozzle of catastrophically inbred proportions.

I’m his Sheik.

“Link, you pathologically tunnel-visioned block-head! Open the fucking door!” I holler, and fling myself against the mahogany since my hands are still stuck _en garde_. I thump against the surface of it like a freshman hits the floor after their first experience of hard liquor, and do more damage to my ego than my body. Not even scuffing the high-gloss finish of the door itself, so that worked about as well as expected. Dammit, I need in! Now, before he does something we’ll all regret. Like fail. He can’t fail. He _can’t_.

The door moves, but Link’s not the one to open it before I start kicking at it like a particularly graceless showgirl with no rhythm.

Goddesses do I want to take the time to tear out Nostrilization’s two unkempt nose hairs and use them to floss the chunk of what looks like spinach from between his teeth, but I have more important things to worry about. The unsheathed blade at his throat, and the cold rage in my master’s stance keeping it there, for instance. Priorities can be a real bitch, sometimes.

Instead of panting after the promise of violence and begging to be fucked hard and fast and dry like I want when he’s looking that intensely bestial, I step between Linebeck and the point of a very sharp, very dangerous blade. In the hands of a more than proficient swordsman. Because I’m a trusting idiot, and I believe in him.

He won’t hurt me. Not on purpose. We’ll work on the when I ask for it bit, though he’s starting to understand that aspect of my degenerate deviancy better. The moment I’m certain he’s processing my presence, I tilt my head, lean forward just enough to get in range, moan as low as I can in the back of my throat, and lick his sword.

I can’t lose my focus on his responses, but from the clatter and loss of heat at my back, there’s movement. Genius that he is, Mr. Linebeck dashes out of the room as though he has the bad-seafood surprise shits, slamming the door behind him and leaving Link to stare at me until the rage dissipates. I still might be able to turn it into a different kind of passion altogether if I’m lucky. If not, well, I’ve interfered in a duel and deserve to be punished for it.

Please, Din, let me get a good pounding tonight. Either way.

“Damn it, Sheik!” He growls, and lowers his blade, though it remains bare and properly gripped in his main hand. I can move mine again, though, and do. Nayru’s Love in case I’m wrong. Stifle, so no one will hear him murdering me if I’m _really_ wrong. Pulling on the Shadow this late in the evening means they come to my hand as easy as the haphazard, disheveled binding in my hair.

“Hmm?” I hum, low and throaty, and take the time to let it all loose. Thanks to Kamo, it no longer drags on the floor, but if I slouch it will just barely touch. It’s still more than a little damp – drier than Linebeck’s pants – but that doesn’t seem to matter to my master.

Abrasive grapefruit frustration with Linebeck’s incomplete understanding of protocol turns to the familiar neon bright carnelian frustration of thwarted arousal as I toss my hair free. Curl in a bit to make myself look even smaller to him than my bony ass already is, tilt my head to make my eyes look bigger, cock my hip to the side for the appearance of more curves than I actually have. Soften my lips. Offer – without words – the invitation to a different kind of stress relief as a distraction from his lingering, tertiary anger.

Step closer to him, as softly as I can manage, eyes lidded and focused on his lips since he likes kissing so much. Have my snarled, finger-combed hair catch on the door-knob and jerk my head back with the next step.

“Fuck!” My epithet knocks the two-way tie between worry and frustration clear out of his patterns, and the last of his boiling blood bubbles out in a snort of laughter, which wasn’t exactly what I was going for, but I’ll take it. Rising relief means his sword gets put back in its sheath, where it belongs.

“Where were you?” He asks, hands rising to massage my scalp and sooth the soreness there. The firm pressure along my skull makes every bone in my body melt and my eyelids drop, and desire surges to the forefront.

Perfect.

“Farore, does it matter? I’m here now.” I moan, exposing my throat to him, and he takes advantage of it to press his hot, hard body against me and suck at the hickies he left earlier. “Hair down.” I gasp, and he chuckles. “All clean.” That was more of a growl, and earns me teeth on my skin, but no bite. No hurt, and I want it to hurt. Want the reminder of his touch to sting for days.

“Really clean?” The question is accompanied by his strong, warm hands taking a firm grip on my ass to pull my cheeks up and apart.

“Really, really clean.” I even used the detachable showerhead to be certain of it.

“Show me.” He orders, and even though I’m no longer soul-bound to him, that’s one edict I can happily obey. Without any more lube than spit, it’ll hurt when he sticks it in me. Hurt while he cores me out. When he fills me up. It’ll hurt so damn good.

Goddesses, I can barely wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...it's been a week. Apologies for the late update, focusing on editing this was really the last thing on my mind (and I totally 100% forgot/didn't register it was Friday) and so there may be more mistakes than usual.
> 
> As always, thank you to everyone who's kept reading this long. It really means a lot to me. <3


	18. Denouement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smexy times, pillow talk, spooning, and sleep.  
OR  
Sheik pretends he's a cowgirl and Link attempts to think things through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: I think this chapter is clear of triggers, though some parts are on the verge - please pay attention to the warnings and /poke me if you think any of them should be upgraded  
Warnings: Anal Sex, Oral Sex, Analingus (rimming), trauma induced anxiety, references to past survival sex-work, nightmares, racism, language 
> 
> Link's POV

The flush over the bridge of his nose lights up his eyes in a way his casting never could, and the faint tremors spreading through his lean limbs tell me he’s close. Close enough for the sounds we make – the push and the pull, the echo and the answer – align in a symphony of eroticism. Close enough that his small gasps harmonizing with my panting as he tries to regulate his breath and calm himself down won’t help him at all. Especially if I don’t want him to calm down.

I want him to lose control. To feel _good_. That’s kind of the point of all this.

He’s _so beautiful_.

Still too thin, but we’re working on that. Together. I’m close enough myself that hearing the hoarse wail he’s holding back will be enough for me, if he’d just…let go. Let himself have this pleasure, first. Put _himself_ first, just once. I want to hear him sing the worshipful hymn of sensual hedonism into my ears as he spills it all over my body.

“Ah…hng.” He whines, going completely still on top of me and gasping, trying so hard to tend to my enjoyment that he doesn’t register how closely tied it is to his. “S…sorry. Sorry. Mm. _Fuck_, you feel _amazing_. I can’t…” His head rolls back, exposing his throat as he whimpers. Sweaty and disheveled. Hands clenching on my chest as his thighs clench on my sides and he _clenches_ around me. _Tightly._ It takes everything I have to not thrust upward, to let him ride me at his own pace. “...ngh. _Shit._ I’m _sorry_, I _can’t_ _stop it_.” He apologizes. For feeling good. For allowing me to help him feel good.

Goddess, he feels _so good_.

Looks good. Tastes good. Just _is_ so, so, _so very_ good.

“Cum for me.” I whisper, caressing his lean, flexing thighs as he shudders. Hips rocking. Mouth open and panting as sweat beads salty-sweet on his smooth skin. Making him glisten in the low light, warm and golden and glorious. So _close_, if he’d just…

“Ngh. Oh, no. Ha. _Ah!_ Not supposed to…” He moans, denying himself _again_, his graceful hands rising from my chest to cover his fantastically pretty face as his hips shift in metronome time. Rising and falling as he takes me in, his body molding around me. A _perfect_ fit. He’s _so_ _hot_. “…oh…oh…Farore…_ngh_.”

“Cum for me, Kaya. Cum _on_ me. I want…you…to.” Encouraging him, I move for the first time since he straddled me, took me in, and started edging himself. Edging us both. I arch up beneath him and lift us both, roll my hips, aiming for his navel. Hands holding onto his surprisingly solid obliques. Grinding into him. His prostate – that I’ve spent these blissfully torturous minutes moving against but not directly stimulating – should be right…_there_.

“Oh…_Oh_! Hngh! Mm! Ahah…AH! Haaaaaaa.” The change in internal pressure overwhelms him, just as I hoped it would, and my chest and stomach catch the evidence of his pleasure as he shakes and shudders and spills. “Fffffff… ha…. haAAaa… huh… ha…” It’s not the wail I wanted, but rather a series of small, wavering yelps and whimpers that are just as good. _Satisfying_. I miss hearing some of them with my own harsh grunt as he loses first fine muscle control, then large, and his weight comes down to rest entirely on my pelvis.

Twitching. Breathless. Beautiful.

The rose-filled tawny skin, flushed and glistening with exertion. Tousled honey hair. Parted lips, full and moist and open. Quivering hands on my lats as he undulates uncontrollably around me. Goddess, _yes_. _This_ is what I wanted, right here. We’re _alive_, and it’s so very, very good to be alive right now.

“Heh.” I grin up at him as he comes back down, and wish I had something to take a picture with, but my loaner phone is still charging. I don’t want to ever forget this moment, and try burning it into my memory, hoping for hundreds more. Plus, I know Malon would make the same kind of noises he’s making right now just from knowing I had proof of our…compatibility.

“Oh…oh, fuck, _Link_.” Recovering quickly, his hair tickles my inner thighs as he flings it back, grabs one of my thighs in each hand, and resumes his bouncing. Riding me as his rigid shaft bounces against our stomachs, mine swelling fuller in response. “Oh…oh…yeah. _Yeaaaah_. Mm. _Fuck_. Hngh…ah.” Still quavering from his orgasm, his thighs trembling beneath _my_ hands, he somehow manages to shift himself around me, pulsating. Changing the angle of our joining. Hot and wet and so very, very sweet.

“Oh! Oh, Ka...ya!” I can give him no more warning than that before the world brightens, and then it’s my turn to shudder and gasp and collapse as my very essence drains out of me, filling him up. I don’t have nearly as far to go, which is good, because it means I can catch him before he moves to get off of me. To disengage. To clean us up, and erase the intimacy of the moment with a few swipes of a cloth over my hips and stomach, and between his legs. “Wait.” I pant, not ready to give him up to the night just yet. “Wait. Please.”

He waits, allowing me listen to the moisture slurp between our dampened skin with each off-rhythm breath until our lungs meet in a complimentary harmony. Inhale-exhale. Exhale-inhale. Kiss that breath from his lips. Taste his very soul. See the bright red of his eyes watching me. Witness the softening of his smile. Feel his laughter through my belly.

“You good?” He breathes, flushed and so very warm. Sated. “Because I’m sticky, and would rather not be.”

“Same. Just…give me a moment.” I groan, remembering the flavor of him, the salt of his sweat, less than an hour ago as spread him open to taste his most intimate skin. The faint tang that I thought was a bit of leftover soap until it didn’t fade no matter how many times I licked and bit and delved for more. The _sounds_ he made while I did it...addicting. Holy Hylia, he was _incredible_. _Is_ incredible.

If _nothing_ else – knowing I can please him that way – I may try it with Tetra and Malon, if they’re willing. He’s willing, and waiting, and wonderful. I hope he can see how happy I am right now, how pleased he’s made me. How eager I am to repeat the experience, since I finally know something that he _likes. _Something that makes him feel as good as he makes me feel, even if he didn’t say it.

He was too busy swearing between moans, practically shredding the sheets with his nails as he clung on for dear life, but I understood.

I liked it, too. More than I thought I would, even if his response had been mediocre. Enough that I want to try again. But not tonight. Tonight, now, I just want to hold him close, no matter what Linebeck thinks are proper sleeping arrangements. I certainly don’t need a king-sized bed all to myself. Not that we’ve used the bed for sleeping, yet.

“Alright. Alright. I’m good.” I huff as he stays astride me, breathing deeply and starting to rock in place. Squelching. Grinning. “Up, turn around.” Patting his thigh, I wonder at the hitch in his breath, the faint uncertainty. He’s always been so sure, so confident in the bedroom that his hesitancy now as he shifts to straddle my face is at once both confusing and endearing.

“Here?” His question is accompanied by a fierce blush that he hides behind his loose hair. I let myself stroke the line of his leg, drawing my fingers across his smooth skin, cup the faint curvature of his buttocks, and inhale the heavy musk of our recent activity that covers the lighter, electric scent of him.

“Perfect.” Exhaling the word across the dampened split dividing him at his tailbone makes him gasp and reach for me in turn. Running my teeth across his cheek as he swallows me whole means his intentional moan vibrates around my shaft. I bite in retaliation, the muscle firm beneath my teeth, and suck to sooth as well as clean. Lick. Taste all of him. Again, now with our flavors mingled. If we weren’t facing such an early morning, I’d _definitely_ like to explore this new understanding between us a bit more.

But Tetra is waiting. She needs me. I don’t know _why_ I am so very certain of that. Intuition, maybe. Everyone is worried for themselves, of course, and vaguely for the Royal Family…at least if I am to believe the talk around the table at supper. I think I might be the only one more concerned for Tetra, herself. The fact that I love her so very much probably plays a part. I need her, definitely. And as thrilling as this erotic dalliance with my Sheik is, Tetra is my fiancée, and second in line to the throne. I’m to be her husband. She will be my wife.

Malon will most likely be her first consort – since that position allows her to retain her rank – whereas being my consort would be a step downward. If she accepts position, that means I would be free to offer Kaya the opportunity to be my consort – even though I’m only entitled to one – since he’s no longer my Sheik in anything but intent and action.

As his people say, we are our deeds. He has not faltered, not once. He was here, waiting for me, until Linebeck literally dragged him out by his hair.

Goddess, I’m still angry. Even though nothing bad happened and Kaya is here with me now, being _with_ me in a most decidedly intimate way. Not just sexually, but emotionally as well…though the sex has taken precedence yet again. The evidence of that is in front of my face, and isn’t as bitter as I remember it being. Salty, and the texture leaves something to be desired, but if Kaya can swallow without complaint the least I can do is return the favor. It’s mine, after all, and I delve for as much as I can, just to hear him sing for me a little more.

Kiss the notes from his lips, and taste myself on them as he presses himself up to meet me halfway.

His mouth is indeed worth offending Hylia for, and before that becomes offending either our hosts or our dawn schedule, I roll us both the right way on the bed and curl around him. I’m careful not to lie on his hair, but with it between us some of it still finds its way to cling to my skin, and so I stroke it to gather it all into one long bundle. Kiss his jawline. Caress his side, and drape my arm around his waist.

“Thank you. For being here. For staying.” I hum.

“Of course I’d stay, you spoon.” He grouses, pulling his hair over his shoulder to press against me, skin on skin, from shoulder to ankle. Tempting me to start all over again. I breathe him in instead, and listen to him settle. Nimble fingers start braiding the long strands of his thick hair up without the fabric wrap for sleep. “I _have_ encountered actual Bokoblins now, you know, and as closely matched as you are in strategic forethought and developed musculature, I find your company preferable.”

“Thanks.” I drawl as sarcastically as I can, and pinch his hip in retaliation. “It’s nice to be appreciated.”

He hums and is quiet as he finishes his weaving and reaches to the bedside table for an elastic to tie the length of his hair off. That tie is as worn and frayed as his shirt, reminding me of _another_ reason I’m angry with Linebeck. I let it go before I end up squeezing Sheik too tight. Hopefully there’s something in the same stores I got re-outfitted from that will fit him decently well, because the clothing he has should be disposed of. With the electricity and gas back, we don’t need pajamas for tonight, but it’s still nearly two weeks before the Spring Equinox and the Lover’s Festival bring warmth back to the world.

It is my privilege to keep him warm, until then. After, too, if he would allow me that. Rolling and burrowing into my side, he tucks himself onto my shoulder and tangles our legs.

“I do, you know.” He sighs. “Appreciate you, I mean. You’re just…good.”

“You were pretty good yourself.” I growl playfully, nipping at his rounded ear, and snuggle closer to rest my chin on the crown of his head. He snorts into the crook of my neck, but lets me hold him.

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it. I’m serious, Link. You’re a good person, so please, try to refrain from ventilating the torsos of pedantic morons. Mr. Linebeck was just doing his job, and as satisfying as stabbing him would be, it’s not worth the time it would take to clean your blade.” The soft pressure of his hand on my chest can’t actually stop me from moving, but it’s enough of a reminder that I can stay put on my own instead of getting up and hunting Linebeck down to get him to apologize.

Sheik – and he’s back to being my Sheik again and not just Kaya – is right. Linebeck was simply doing his job. Poorly.

“He’s incompetent.” I complain, running my fingers down his spine. I can still feel his ribs cleanly, and resist the urge to pull him closer, somehow. “He didn’t ask me what I expected for you, and I’m pretty sure he didn’t ask _you_ anything. He assumed, and decided how to treat you on his own, with disastrous results.”

“It wasn’t a disaster…” Sheik argues. “…just an inconvenience. After fighting the Tormentor Bloat in the woods and that Corrupted Revenant here, I’d think you’d be able to recognize a disaster when you saw it.”

“You’re my Sheik.” I reason. “You should be treated better than that.” For his training alone, he would rank next to any other professional. For what he does for me – with me – he’d qualify as a concubine. Conventionally, either one of those would mean he would be given his own room, though he may have to share a washroom depending on who the host was. Of course, as guests, we should have declared our intent to stay at _least_ a week in advance, and gotten Senza’s permission to spend the night before showing up.

Not that I anticipated any of this.

“I…a month ago you didn’t even know what we were.” He pulls away, letting cold air between us. “You can’t be upset with him just because you’re better informed now than you were then. Not that you’re _well_ informed now.” Rolling over, he sits up, letting me admire the straight line of his spine echoed by his braid for a moment before he curls in on himself. Like there’s a weight pressing on his shoulders and crushing him. Not talking about what bothers him. Again.

Things that I should know.

Shaking him would be counterproductive. I think that phrase will be my new mantra.

“So _tell_ me.” Yelling at him doesn’t help either, but I can’t keep the exasperation from my tone. “Or isn’t that your job?”

“It would be, if I was really your Sheik.” He agrees, “At least, it would be part of it. And no, I _shouldn’t_ be treated better. I shouldn’t be acknowledged at all, because at this point, you are _not_ a member of the Royal Family. You shouldn’t have a Sheik until one had been trained specifically for you, after you married Princess Tetra, which at this point makes me something more than an inanimate object, and something less than a well-trained pet for the purposes of etiquette.”

“But we…you…if the Bond settled…” I’m confused enough, sad enough – _disappointed_ enough – that being this tired, this far from home, away from every familiar face and place and routine while missing my fiancée makes my heart _ache_ enough that I choke on it.

“That was then, this is now.” He shrugs. “Things either change or die, circumstances included.”

“I still think he should have asked.” As frustrated as I am with…with everything, _Kaya_ isn’t to blame. At all. It just _sucks_. He watches my grimace turn into a pout, and sighs, turning back to look at me, reaching out of his own volition and taking my hand.

“The way people…we…the way _I_ think things _should_ happen often has no bearing on what _does _happen. The universe is _far _too complex for any one individual to understand, though patterns can be predicted within a reasonable degree of error. A Sheik simply observes their _domine’_s patterns and works to maintain an optimum functionality, so they may better serve the people they are beholden to.” He says. Maybe trying to explain, maybe trying to soothe, either way, it throws me off for a bit.

“The…the shield?” I ask. What he’s described is just the initial, original duties of a Sheik, not the part that I hate. The part that I don’t understand at all.

“Hard to function well if you’re dead.” He shrugs. “You know how cars work pretty well, right?”

“Yes? What does that have to do with _any_ of this?” Goddess, shaking him would be counterproductive for his explanation, but it might make some of the pieces of how his brain works fall out and make sense.

“Think of a Sheik as a regulator for your mental, physical, magical, and emotional well-being, so you don’t drive yourself and everyone you are responsible for off a bridge, or worse, through a playground.”

“My emotional well-being isn’t very well regulated right now.” I growl.

“No shit.” He grunts. “And that’s my point. You care too damn much, are too damn kind, and get too attached way too damn _fucking _fast. We _met_ twenty-three…well, technically twenty-four days ago, and already you’re…that’s not even a full moon cycle, Link! It takes around forty days to change a habit. Anyone _normal_ would be utterly freaking out with everything that’s happened, but you’re…” He bites off another sentence midway through and stands up and I need to clench my fists in the bedding to keep myself from grabbing him and shaking him, _hard_, no matter how counterproductive it would be. “You’re _not_ normal. You’re…you’re handsome, and kind, and considerate, and so good it kind of makes me want to throw up a little.”

The very exasperated and slightly fond admission – and the way he glances back at over his shoulder to see how I react – startles a disbelieving chuckle out of me. “What?” I have to have _some _kind of explanation for _that_ gem. He got me to laugh with the spoon nickname, and I’ve grown fond of it since, but this?

“Sentiment gives me indigestion.” He complains. “Makes me anxious. I don’t know how to respond to the copious amounts of affection you exude, and that fucks up my ability to keep you emotionally stable.”

Oh, my Good _Lady_…

…he’s _adorable_.

“Why does my anxiety amuse you?” His consternation is palpable, and I can’t hold back my grin. If riding the emotional roller-coaster he’s put me through means I get this kind of reward, strap me in and let’s go.

“Goddess, I love you.” I gush, just to see him startle and blush.

“I…can see that.” He exhales, covering his eyes and rubbing his temples with one hand. “You really shouldn’t.”

“What you think _should_ happen has no bearing on what _has_ happened.” I tease, quoting his own words only moments ago. “I. Love. You. I think you’re funny, and smart, and beautiful, and I want you to come back to bed so we can sleep and leave early tomorrow.”

“I should check the Gossip for information on Princess Tetra’s whereabouts before we go. It might take a while for me to search, though, so I don’t alert anyone untrustworthy and risk her safety.” He cautions.

“Do that tomorrow. Come to bed now.” I cajole, crawling in and patting the covers next to me.

“Technically today. It’s almost one.” He says, not moving. “I still want to clean up a bit first. I won’t take long.”

“Did I miss some?” I may have. The taste of my own semen isn’t something I exactly savor, though his skin is unobjectionable enough to make it worth eating him out for the sounds of ecstasy he made when I did it.

“Uh…I’d just…I want to clean up, is all.” He prevaricates, uncomfortable and embarrassed instead of the normal uncomfortable and anxious. A horrible thought rises.

“Did I hurt you?” We didn’t have any lube. That’s a large part of why I spent so much time relaxing him with my mouth, both before and after. I didn't _taste_ any blood, but…sliding across the covers, I’ve managed to take three large strides before he can respond to my question, getting close enough to touch him even though I refrain.

“Not…not in any way I didn’t want.” His blush takes over his face from his hairline to his collarbones. I lift a hand to comfort him, but that just makes him retreat further, so I stop, and wait for him to work through whatever is going on in his head. Given the topic, it may have something to do with his repeated apologies for enjoying our lovemaking. “I…I just get a…” His mumble fades into incomprehensible sounds of distress and fear.

I can’t _not_ pull him into a hug.

He’s shaking – apparently not done with his delayed emotional roller-coaster yet – and cold to the touch. Humming tunelessly, petting his hair, and rocking us both back and forth ever so slightly seems to help.

“You get a…?” I prompt once he’s not breathing quite as shakily.

“I get a stomachache whenever someone cums inside me...” He mutters, going pale and tense in my arms, sounding like he’s going to be sick. “…and it feels gross. I don’t like it. That’s why I ask people to wear a condom. Not just because of sexually transmitted infections, though that plays a big part, but because of that.”

Oh.

…_oh._

“Why…” I start, before thinking back. Aside from that frantic first time, he did ask. And even then, he’d asked before I even truly considered the prospect of bedding him. It was one of the _first_ things he did. Before I even knew he could still be Bonded…be put in bondage. I bought a whole box of them, which is still sitting, unopened, in my bedside table drawer. He _asked_, and has anticipated where my train of thought has derailed.

“I did ask, but you’re clean, so I didn’t insist. I…it…when I…no one really cared what I wanted, and they…they paid more. Without. Plus I…I wasn’t licensed, so insisting could mean losing a trick or…or getting reported, and I _needed_ the money to…to eat. Then you liked not using one, and I wasn’t…I _couldn’t_…I just…it…” He babbles, pitch rising and words coming faster even as the syllables stumble over each other and his volume drops, thoughts disintegrating in real time.

“I’m sorry.” I apologize for not picking up on the pretty blatant indicator before he can apologize for not standing up for himself. Frankly, I’m impressed he managed to articulate any boundary that’s been as apparently worn down as much as this one has. I’ll definitely remember _not_ to cross it again.

“Don’t be. I’m the one…it’s only natural for you to like it. It’s kind of the whole purpose of fucking in the first place, whether you cum in a mouth, cunt, or ass. I’m just a freak.” He sighs, trying to take responsibility for something that’s entirely my fault and telling me that we’re going to have to have a long chat about the rest of it, later.

“Sheik, shut up.” I kiss his temple to take the sting from my words. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you. I’m sorry I caused you discomfort. I swear I’ll wear a condom from now on. Now, go shower so you feel better, then come back to bed. I’ll keep it warm for you while you’re gone.” I promise.

“…okay.” He shudders so hard on his next inhalation that I’m afraid he’ll fall apart, and chokes on the exhale as the tension in his back and shoulders melts away. I pretend not to see the glitter of moisture in his eyes as he retreats to the ensuite washroom, and spend some time straightening the bedding up and finding good pillows before climbing back in.

It’s…progress. I’ve learned a lot more in the last twenty-four hours than I have from the Hateno Codices all semester. Ghosts are real. Blood is a dark red-brown when there’s a lot of it, and dries to a stinking black. Monsters all have some kind of weakness. My friends are incredible. I’m attracted to competence more than coyness or confidence.

Senza is lonelier than I thought she would be, and I can be a better friend to her by simply including her more. Her cook is amazing. Her seneschal is a jerk. I need to work on keeping my temper better, and can fight for hours if I need to. Walk for hours. Bike for hours. I cook like an amateur, but have a decent understanding of the basics.

Senza is a better friend than I am.

Sheik is a better person than anyone could expect someone with his vocabulary to be.

They’re both amazing. They’ve both suffered in ways I can’t imagine, just for being themselves. I can’t really understand, but I can…help. I _can_. I’m pretty sure I have to, if I want to live with myself. I can help them both. By being myself. By listening. By being there for them when they need me.

Tetra needs me.

Sheik was right, I do have a hero complex.

Even though it feels like forever, he really doesn’t take long in the washroom, and turns off the over-head light before coming back to my bed. Willingly, and of his own volition. I can’t see anything as he slides under the covers to curl into my side on his side. The way he always sleeps, and he is asleep nearly instantaneously. His skin still cold to the touch. I curl around him to share my warmth. Even though I’m exhausted, he’s worse off. I got to eat a nice ham dinner. He got to serve it, and I know that no matter what the servants got, it wasn’t as good.

The formal dinner _did_ allow everyone to return to their normal routine, but – even if it’s just for one meal – the celebration of coming back should have been for everyone who got to come back. Not just Senza and I for doing what needed to be done so they could. Sheik helped, too. Senza’s security team helped by clearing the staff from Whittleton Manor in the first place, then keeping everyone together and relatively safe from the monsters roaming the streets.

Yes, there were injuries. Healed by red potion as soon as the cellar stores were opened again, but for her second night-watch guard that meant three days of binding a Bokoblin bite and hoping for the best. One of her maids fell and sprained both wrists and couldn’t even feed herself for two. Five people caught colds from the chill and the stress, and none of them were fighting the source of the problem. They were just trying to survive…and they did. That’s cause for at least a little bit of a party, right?

Even for the three of us who actually cleared the Malice from the Manor, our injuries were tended to quickly thanks to Senza’s foresight and stores. Yes, I got shot in the calf, and Sheik lost nearly half of his forearm to the bunny-thing’s teeth, but those hurts were healed within minutes. They didn’t linger. My brain can’t stop thinking about all the days her people were suffering while Sheik and I were dawdling, getting here on foot. I should have been faster. Somehow.

I can only pray there won’t be a next time.

There’s comfort to be had with Kaya sleeping in my arms. Trusting me enough to do so. I’ll take it, and remember the promises I’ve made. The lessons I’ve learned from my mistakes over the last few days.

It’s not surprising that I have strange dreams. Dreams of Telma wandering the halls calling my name, of Ashei being swarmed and brought down, of Shad lying cold and still as the library burns around him, of the kids being herded into pens like livestock. Of Sheik being burned alive. Of Tetra surrounded, alone, forced to watch as a mass of crackling black Scourge devours everything in its path, until there’s nothing left. Unable to do anything as it comes closer, and closer, and closer.

Of me, fighting, and fighting, and fighting. Monsters I know and ones I don’t. Enemies from my past and ones that are new. Losing my shield, my grip on my sword, my footing. Falling. Failing.

Dying.

The bright light I find myself gasping to is accompanied by birdsong, and for a moment I have no idea where I am, my arms outstretched and grasping for Tetra’s hands. Clean arms, not covered in grit and scrapes and blood and things best left unmentioned. Soft warmth at my back, not hard and cold and rough. The humming bustle of a First-World civilization ringing in my ears, not the cacophony of a Third-World battle. My face is damp, muscles tight, heart racing.

I’m alone.

Why – out of all the dreams I’ve forgotten upon waking – does this one have to linger in my body even as it slips from my mind? Pushing my head back into the pillows, I take a deep breath to calm my pulse and scrub at my face with the blanket to erase more than just tears. That done, the cause of my distress vanishes in the early morning light, leaving only faint unease as I sit up and turn off my alarm.

A knot of tangled hair in the waste bin as I empty my bladder is the only evidence of Sheik himself left in Senza’s guestroom, though his presence remains with the soap, razor, towel, deodorant, and lotion left out for me in the order I normally use them, and the outfit placed neatly on the counter. All my gear, cleaned, patched, mended and polished to a shine. My bow, quiver, sword, and shield by the door next to my boots. Also cleaned and tended to.

It must have taken him hours, and I sincerely hope that Senza’s staff helped. Normally – before – I would take this kind of service for granted, but not anymore. Not now that I’ve had to do it for myself. I need to thank whoever is responsible – since I can’t really reciprocate – and find Sheik so we can get ready and go do the things that we _can_. Tetra is somewhere deeper in the city, hiding from her parents’ murderer…if there even is a single individual responsible for it, and not a group. Probably a group, though I can only speculate on motivation.

Regicide and service disruption certainly destabilizes a country, though that might not be the goal. If there is a goal.

I don’t recall any of the legends about the Calamity having an instigator, just those who decided to take advantage of a bad situation to gain control over others. Not that I seriously, critically thought about any of the children’s stories or the sermons in Church when I was supposed to be listening to them. Legends exist everywhere, and I never gave Hyrule’s any more attention than I had to…they all had far too much magic in them, and had no methods of corroboration. Legends of how a child of the Royal Line wielded their Divine Power to seal the Darkness. Of a Hero with a magic sword that clears the way. Formulaic, and cyclical.

_Mythical_, not historical.

Yet the Hero of Champions’ bones lie in state in the Castletown History Museum, alongside the primitive slate he used and the shield he was buried with. Photos of ruins. Rusted and brittle weapons he was said to have used, though not _the_ sword. That was, apparently, lost to time, though some relics survived. Each of the other Champions has their own wing, with the schematics of the Divine Beast they piloted, and even some of the functioning parts once the machines were dismantled and brought in. Tangible. Physical. _Real_.

I don’t know what to think anymore. I just know that, with the Chosen Hero coming to help Hilda defeat the Darkness, someone needs to protect all the people not directly involved. Hyrule is more than the land, and if fighting at Senza’s side for Whittleton Manor has taught me anything, it’s that it’s the _people_ that make Hyrule worth fighting for. Tetra and I can do that, if I can just get to her side. Sheik will help me. Senza, too. Niko and Gonzo and Mako and Nudge will, if they’re still in range. Malon would if she could.

But, just like Kaya is my Sheik and supposed to be there for me, Tetra is _my_ fiancée. I’m responsible for being there for her. Being her partner in all things. If that means we’re taking care of the people while Hilda takes care of the land, so be it. We can do that. Tetra can do that on her own. She’s smart enough and strong enough to do almost anything. I can help. I _want _to help.

With my loaner phone fully charged and a back-up battery waiting, if local service comes up again, I can call her. Until then, I just have to keep trying to find her, and then stay by her side once I do. I can’t do that without Sheik. I can’t do anything if I don’t take care of myself. Clean, cleared, rested, and healed…I’m hungry.

Leaving the guest room, I manage to find both breakfast and my Sheik in relatively short order. They’re both in the ballroom, on opposite ends, with Senza between them directing her staff. There’s a buffet table set up from the kitchen with breakfast foods of all sorts, though fresh _anything_ is distinctly lacking, and there’s no cream for adding to the coffee or tea. The powdered creamer doesn’t taste the same, and my tea is slightly over-steeped, which makes it bitterer than I can really handle.

I do get a waffle, though, and that more than makes up for the last week of no waffles at all.

I also get to listen to Sheik do what he does best, and I don’t mean the continually surprising variety of profanity that he peppers his speech with. No. I’m treated to a pianissimo interlude of his magic filling the ballroom beneath the hubbub of what seems like the entirely of Senza’s staff eating and cleaning and tending to each other as they set up what – to my untrained eye at least – looks like a makeshift camp to house all the staff that don’t live on the property.

Unlike Korokshire, outside the city limits, Whittleton has been a district of Castletown for so long there aren’t even signs of where the servants quarters used to be, so of course they need housing now, and of course Senza would provide it. She’s a good person. One I’m proud to call my friend.

Cots and screens and a variety of lamps from all areas of the Manor are placed in neat rows one after another, while carts are stocked with toiletries and potions and over-the-counter medications. A coffee urn is brought out from the kitchen for a constant supply of hot water, and Sheik takes a break from his etching of the door frames to scrawl a series of Runes in permanent marker on the inside of the metal canister, ensuring that even if the power goes out, there will be both water in the urn and that it will be warm as long as someone can supply the requisite energy.

He sees me, and finishes his current project before getting a bowl of oatmeal and a mug of coffee for himself. Dodging his way through the arrival of the tiny Kokiri gardener and two of her helpers, he stops long enough to speak with one of the staff in coveralls about the lettering on the doorframe. Sheik’s soft tenor doesn’t hold up to her brash alto, but does get her laughing and slapping him on the back. He doesn’t spill, and grins wryly at her in return before making his way over and sitting on the bench across from me to eat.

The shirt he’s wearing is new – or at least new to him – just like the faded rust stains covering the rest of his clothing on his right side. The silvered lines on his forearm beneath his shirt, wrappings, and Silver Scale are a more permanent reminder of what could have been. They’re newer than the tattoos on his biceps, and I spent a lot of time in the darkness last night tracing their faint ridges with my fingers.

“Majora’s Wrath, how do these people put on their pants without giving themselves concussions?” He mutters into his bowl, sour and exhausted. It’s not even eight in the morning, and we have a long day ahead of us. He shouldn’t be exhausted.

“Good morning to you, too. How did you sleep?” I ask, hoping to steer the conversation towards something a little more conventional and find out why I was alone when I woke up.

“The first three hours or so were great.” He sighs. “Then came the nightmares, and it went to shit. Figured it was better to ward the place than to piss the bed or wind up beating you in my sleep, so I started as soon as the sun rose. You?”

“Nightmares.” I shudder, glad that I can’t remember them. “Stop playing with that, and eat it.”

Guiltily, he quits stirring his oatmeal and grating the metal spoon against the ceramic bowl, taking a bite of the slop before making a face and sipping his coffee. Black. Ugh. As bad as the artificial creamer is, straight black coffee is worse. I don’t know how he can do it.

He _does_ eat it all, though, and keeps most of his pique to himself. It slips out when the fifth person in overalls comes to ask the same question as the second and third did, but I can’t really blame him for it. The spell-work is literally on the wall, they just have to make sure to recharge it regularly. If I could distract him with something, that would probably help, but there’s no time. We have to go.

Tetra is waiting, and I don’t know how much longer she can hold out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed the smut! (and the feelings, but mostly the smut)  
Sadly, this is the last direct smut in Unleavened (there's a Crumb that will be posted for referenced smut later on) because there are 33 chapters total and that's a lot for only five more days worth of the timeline.  
Yup. 15 chapters for 5 more days.  
These poor boys are gonna be BUSY.
> 
> Small edit - spacing and spelling mistake


	19. Cruising for a Bruising

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sheik learns a new skill.  
Link catches a break.  
They both make new friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: Canon Typical Violence, Injury  
Warnings: Sheik being Sheik, past survival sex work, vehicular collision

Now, when I said that it was time to make like a baby and head out, I didn’t mean at a fucking crawl. We’ve been sitting in the Lady Senza’s S.U.V. for nearly half an hour farming dust while I get a lesson in theory and no practical demonstrations or application from my suddenly chatty _domine_.

Link. _Chatty_. The _fuck_.

Not that he’s particularly quiet. Or overly verbose. Like his sword-play, his words are direct, purposeful, and fair. _Normally_ there’s a _reason_ to endure my Lord’s conversation when he inflicts it on someone. It has a fucking _point_, if you will. Possibly even contributing to a discussion. Not this…inane word vomit. I can barely get a word in edge-wise, and I’ve fucking _mastered_ the cutting remark.

If Lord Spoon was of the card-carrying, tinfoil hat wearing S.A.G.E. kind of bent, I’d have at least _expected_ the all-talk no-action schtick he’s pulling. Maybe having to walk through a significant portion of the population already living with that affliction on the way to Whittleton Manor transmitted an airborne infection that is responsible for his sudden lack of urgency? I don’t really have any other explanation for why he keeps using so many words to say so very, _very_ little.

“Yellow lines mark the center of a road with two way traffic. White lines mean all the traffic is travelling in the same direction. Try to stay within the painted lines at all times, whether they are solid or dotted, since that keeps you on your side of the road. Solid means don’t cross the line, dotted means you can cross it if there’s no traffic there. If you need to turn or change lanes, use the turn signal to indicate to other people which way you intend to go before you do.” He explains.

I know I asked – _prayed _– for him to talk more, but holy bloody fucking Fierce Deity this is stale, unsalted rice-crackers for the fifth week in a row _boring_.

“In regards to your hand positions, on older vehicles like my Epona you want to keep your hands at ten and two on the steering wheel. Uh…kind of like on an analog clock? Yeah, ten and two. On newer vehicles like this Navigator, however, you want to keep your hands at the nine and three or eight and four because of the airbag in the steering column. Nine and three will give you better control, but eight and four makes certain that if the airbag deploys you won’t lose a hand.”

…not so boring, and good to know, but still about par with Nima’s lectures. There are some other hand positions I’d rather have him tell me to use – or have him use on me, because please, sir, can I have some more? – but he’s sated for the time being. I’ve still got some tension, but nothing strong enough to provide more than a momentary distraction from my increasing levels of utter don’t-give-a-shit.

The thought of driving does get my heart-rate up, but it’s just because I’m doing something new. Even with the gut clenching nervousness of wanting to impress him and knowing how deadly a vehicle can be, his ramble is a total snooze-fest. I’ve watched him drive a number of times already, and, while I may not understand the nuances of it and individual circumstances of situation and signage, I have been paying attention. When I haven’t been horizontal in the back seat, that is.

Still not a porn star, still not like that.

I also know that the longer we wait, the less likely it is that Princess Tetra will remain stationary, if she’s even where I _think_ she is in the first place. Not that I don’t appreciate the opportunity to learn – and not that this isn’t potentially a very, very useful skill to have – but he could have picked a better time to teach me. Maybe. If I can drive steadily enough for him to shoot, we can take care of Lady Senza’s Bokoblin infestation on our way out. That’d be useful. Sitting here isn’t.

As long as the corn-fed, hand-reared, cucco-headed mouth-breathers one through seven keep them charged, my wards on Lady Senza’s thresholds will keep that particular rotten barrel of Remnants from gaining the Manor itself, but they can swarm the grounds. Can, and have, either trying to retake this portion of the Champions’ Barrier, or just smelling all the food that is being prepared to feed the forty-two people now living inside the historical building. We took some of it with us – far more than we could manage on leaving Korokshire – but not enough to distract all of them with Link’s bait-and-bash tactics.

Even with that surplus, most of the S.U.V. is filled with canisters of gas, spare batteries, the bicycle and tricycle from the Towne farm, the tent, our sleeping bags, surplus weaponry, and arrows. We _certainly_ have enough arrows to deal with all the Bokoblins…as long as we can get out of the garage and into the driveway. Thus, my impromptu lessons. I probably should be paying attention to those instead of the adrenaline inducing clamor on the other side of the door and the satisfying way my ass, thighs, and lower back ache when I sit.

Fuck, it was _so_ _good_. Even though I wanted – want – more, I don’t think I’ve ever been quite as thoroughly smashed as I was last night. _Utterly_ _fantastic_. It was worth the extra work to do it. Totally. Fuck yes. I’d do it all over again - including the horribly embarrassing and unnecessary discussion afterwards – if it means he actually wraps it before he taps it.

“When you want to bring the vehicle to a stop, take your foot off of the accelerator and move it to the brake pedal. You remember which one is the brake?” He’s still talking. Why is he still talking? If he’d stop talking, we could go. I can do this. I think. I won’t know until I try.

“The left.” Saints. And. Sages. I thought we were going to meet up with Princess Tetra sometime before she turns thirty. The entire reason I risked both scrying and traversing the Gossip this morning as the sun rose was to find out where she is without identifying where she is in a way that anyone else could trace. Inference and elimination, letting Nayru’s Blessing guide my search, and a bit of _fucking_ hope. I’m about ninety-five percent certain of the results, with is pretty good, all told. Enough that I’m confident about the general vicinity to within a two block radius.

Link _needs_ her, so I _have_ to get him to her so he can reassure himself and then continue on and become the Hero he was always meant to be.

Besides, even if Princess, uh, _Queen_ Hilda has complete control of the Triforce, Princess Tetra might be privy to a crucial element of the Hero’s success. Royal secrets and such. As well as being the point of Link’s overriding emotional fixation, she may know where he can get his hands on the Blade of Evil’s Bane. The Sword that Seals the Darkness. The Goddess Blade. The Master Sword. Whatever the fuck you want to call it. The Hero needs it.

And – fuck me and the cock I rode in on – my _domine_ is the Hero.

“Right! Er, correct. That’s correct. The left is the brake. The right is the accelerator.” We’ve been over this. Five times now. Goddesses. I’d be a piss-poor mage if I couldn’t parse the simple symbols spread across the dash that light up when I turn the key in the ignition. He’s wearing his seatbelt. It’ll be fine. “Uh…Sheik?” The button on the remote clipped to the visor opens the garage door. Press the button on the side to move the stick. D is for drive. R is for reverse. P is for park. Something something automatic, so I can ignore the rest.

Residential streets mean a speed limit of fifty kilometers an hour, forty in school zones, all of which are clearly labelled. I don’t need to press on the accelerator much to hit that mark, and Lady Senza’s Navigator _purrs_.

I also don’t need to tilt the steering wheel that far to turn a red Bokoblin into a finely smeared Remnant paste that quickly becomes ash. To the skinny violet spook controlling around two thousand kilograms of moving metal death, one. Demons of the Fissure with a big, gnarly sticks, zero.

Perfect. Now, time to set a new high score.

“Holy Hylia!” Link yelps, grabbing on to the oh-shit handles as I take the turn onto the driveway a little steeper than I anticipated. Oops. You don’t need to move the steering wheel as much the faster you’re going. Duly noted.

It’s not like the wheels left the pavement, anyway. He’s fine.

As with the majority of the nobles’ houses built during the Restoration – as in the grand total of two that I’ve personally seen – there’s a carriage house to one side and a circular drive-way leading from it to the front door. Lady Senza has recently repaved, and red Bokoblins are as dumb as a dry brick and about as common, so I have a bunch of easy targets that don’t clear out of the way and don’t learn from the mistakes of the last batch. Just like a certain segment of the general population I spent two whole fucking wasted hours attempting to teach situational awareness to. Specifically, that the situation they call life has _changed_.

Of course, if the Resurgence of the Calamity doesn’t get them to reconsider how important the brand of shoes they wear is, a ragged, homeless spook sure as fuck isn’t going to manage. I tried, though. That’s all I _could_ do. Even that was met with derision, until Lady Senza insisted they at least pretend to listen and gave me one of her shirts to wear instead of what was left of the one I had. I appreciate the lack of bloodstains, honestly: walking trauma victim’s not my best look, and the old one smelled something fierce even after scrubbing it.

If I take a certain amount of vindictive satisfaction running over Bokoblins in what I consider an acceptable redirection of the crystalline onyx frustration building in my gut, well, at least there’s only one witness to it, and Link already knows I’m a little unhinged.

Fuck me if I even scratch the Navigator’s custom paint job doing it, though.

Five circuits later, I think I’ve got the hang of this driving thing, and no more Bokoblins appear to join their brethren in piles of ash on the pavement. Link hasn’t let go of the handle yet. He also hasn’t reprimanded me or corrected my technique. I’ll take it, and pull the S.U.V. back into the correct side of the road. Rinse the windshield with the wipers after trying the handle with the high-beams first because I couldn’t remember which was which and dare not look. Drive down the lane. Bring the S.U.V. to a complete stop. Signal. Turn. Speed Limit, fifty kilometers an hour.

By the Three, this is so much faster than walking. Faster than biking as well, though there are paths and shortcuts we could take on a bike or on foot that I can’t with the S.U.V. I also can’t stay entirely on my side of the road, since people just abandoned their vehicles where they were when the Calamity struck. Not that there were a lot of people driving at the crack of it’s-still-dark-out, but there were some. The closer we get to the city center, the more evidence there is to support my hypothesis. More trucks, cabs, cars, and a couple buses just dead in the roadway. Trams and R.T.S. shuttles stopped in their tracks.

Thankfully, the people that were in them are long, long gone.

It makes sense. There are more people working irregular hours, or night shifts, or cruising for a good time in the core neighborhoods than in the sinister saffron streets of Stepford wife suburbia. The only question I have is where the fuck everyone went. It’s not like being stranded here means they’re any _less_ stranded because there’s no automated transportation. There should be people…or at least traces of them. Somewhere.

I guide the Navigator around a marked Commissionaire’s sedan and back to my correct lane before Link decides to talk again.

“That was _awesome._” He states, glowing with a thwarted adrenal response and speaking with all the directed emphasis that years of experience with really bad puns gives him, then chuckles in a way that makes me forgive him for all of the puns I’ve yet to hear. “You’re doing well.”

“It’s not that hard, really.” And it isn’t. Now that I’ve got the hang of the responsiveness of the steering wheel and the sensitivity of the pedals, driving is one of the few markers of middle-to-upper class adulting that I’ve managed to successfully perform. Driving itself is _way_ easier than meeting the requirements for enough scholarships to cover tuition while homeless and not legally employed. I have to concede it would probably be a different story if there were other vehicles moving, or any of the electronic signage was functioning. But they’re not. Instead, the only movement is caused by garbage in the wind and echoes of memories of what this place is meant to be.

It’s too still. Too quiet. There are more homes here than in Lady Senza’s neck of the woods. They’re all closer together, too, with more multi-unit dwellings. Shops. Utilities. There should be _some _sign of people out and about. Scavenger animals feasting on the garbage that hasn’t been collected, if nothing else. My _domine _is quiet, too. Staring at me, and displeased about something in my response, because he’s gone all over auburn annoyed, his amber upset darkened with disappointment.

“It may not be the most difficult task you’ve ever done, but it still requires a degree of alertness and coordination that takes practice.” He shakes his head. “You’re amazing, Sheik, and should be recognized for it. Just…take the compliment, and stop trying to make yourself smaller than you are.”

Good and Gracious Hylia but if that order doesn’t make me want to hunch over and curl into myself and disappear. He has no fucking clue, either, about why I may not want to be acknowledged. Why I don’t like standing out, being noticed. He’s never been beaten down for being exceptional, not like I have. At the Donavitches’, at St. Daira’s, at Atun U., in Ikana, at Castletown U…and that’s just physically.

There are hundreds of little ways to crush someone without ever having to be in the same room.

“Smaller is harder to hit.” If they don’t see me, they won’t hurt me. Stay quiet. Don’t fight. Head down. Know your place. Stupid spook. Goddesses. I really don’t want to fucking talk about it, because that’s asking for a flashback and now it _not_ the time. Even thinking about it has me tense and dropping my gaze to the dash instead of keeping my eyes on the Din damned road.

Lady Senza’s Navigator isn’t small in any sense of the word.

In less than a fraction of a second the center of the steering wheel goes from stippled charcoal grey plastic to blossoming off-white fabric with a haze of some off-white powder as my entire body is flung forward. The seatbelt becomes an immoveable line of blunt force across my chest, and my Nayru’s Love – both the one on myself and the one on Link – dissolves in a fierce recoil of energy. Enough to break bones without it there, and bruise badly as is.

If I could only figure out how to transmute that power into stronger protections without the lengthy set up or resultant migraine, my binding Rune would _work_, dammit.

There’s a crunch as the hood buckles and lifts. The windshield shatters into a crazed web of cracks and jagged fractures around large, curved bone – no, _horn_. That’s a horn. Steel-blue hide. Metal plate. Armor. One malevolent deep-coral eye filled with luminescent, active Malice.

Then off-white fabric fills my vision, and when it falls to drape over the steering wheel my face hurts. A lot. Acknowledging that leads to the Nobel Prize winning discovery that my chest also hurts. My legs hurt. My neck hurts. Everything hurts, and the S.U.V. is smoking. Crumpled. Stopped dead in the road and hissing like a pissed off viper. What…

…Link.

He was wearing his seatbelt. The airbags on the passenger side deployed. There’s some blood spatter on the leather seat, residual warmth…but no Hylian. No Master. No Hero, and with no Bond to deliver the consequences of my inattention directly…I need to find him. Now.

Leaning forward tells me that I can’t. If I were any thicker, I’d have trouble inhaling with how close the steering wheel is to my ribcage. Breathe, Kaya. The smoke from the pulverized hood doesn’t let me see anything outside, and even though I can undo my seatbelt, I can’t get out. The door frame is as twisted as my penchant for pain as a coping mechanism.

Something squeals, enraged and porcine. Horn, hide, plate. Bullbo. That was a Bullbo. Armored. In Castletown. I hit a Bullbo. How…

_…Bulblins_.

Bulblins, riding their Bullbos. In Castletown. Downtown Castletown. But they’ve been living peacefully in communal farms in the southern provinces for over a century. What are they doing here, now? I can’t see past the smoke in the front, and the seat next to me is empty. Just a bit of blood, really. Door ajar. No Link. He must have been able to escape the wreck.

Please don’t let him have been thrown. _Please_. I can’t…if I…if…

Shut _up_. _Fuck_, Kaya, just shut _up_. He’s not dead. _Think, _you stupid spook. The minor regenerative base casting you put on his overworked muscles with the lingering bruises of his puncture wound last night is still trucking along even if Lady Senza’s S.U.V. never will again. He must have gotten out on his own. Breathe.

If he got out, he’s mobile. Mobile means he can run and hide, because a Hylian can’t outrun a cursed Bullbo, and a cursed Bullbo means that the collision might not entirely be my fault. It’s still _mostly_ my fault – because I wasn’t applying one hundred percent of my attention to the task of driving – but not all of it. If he’s mobile, he can also come back later, with help, because I am well and truly pinned.

Stuck in a trap of my own making, through a series of over-confident decisions in areas I have no right to be confident about. Forgetting – at the first knuckle-dragging opportunity – that unearned confidence is just arrogance dressed up and lookin’ pretty. Fuck, keep your head _down_, Kaya. Stay still and quiet. Don’t draw their attention, and they might just leave you alone. Monster or man.

“Hold on, little brother. I got ya.” The voice to my left makes me jump, coming within a hair of canning myself on the steering column, and then making me hold very, very still as a set of hands four times the size of my head tear open the Navigator’s bent frame like it’s an instant cup-noodle lid. “Cover your eyes, please.” My Goron rescuer whispers, and I can do that much for him, though I can‘t bring myself to close them entirely.

Not a moment too soon, either. He’s really moving, and from the urgency in those movements and his colors, there’s reason. Probably from whatever is making the Bullbo scream like that. The light glitters, flashing, and the shattered shards of glass from the windshield rain off the cohesive layer between the glass sheets in a sudden squall as the remains of the windshield is torn away. Then the last of the top of the frame goes, and I get my first real look at anything more than the Goron’s hands and belly.

His hull is nearly the same shade as my coastal-tan spook skin – though I’m _blessed_ to have more markings than he does – and his posterior callous is still soft and flexible. Young, then, and acidic lemon yellow scared. Goaded green courage. His amethyst eyes gleam with ill-concealed fear as he watches something over the smoke pouring from the hood that I can’t see. It’s not Link. An unarmed Hylian, no matter how fierce, just can’t do that much damage to a body made of an adapted keratin so dense it functions much like stone.

Link’s sword is gone.

So is one of his shields.

Maybe it is Link. Where the fuck is the handsome jerk?

“Can you…” The Goron starts, then recoils as a Bullbo screams and crashes into something. Or falls over. I don’t know what else would make that kind of racket. “…can you move your toes?” He rasps, trying to make himself less of a target and looking ridiculous doing it. He’s a little under a third the size of Lady Senza’s S.U.V. There’s no way he can hide behind its remains now that it’s been torn to pieces.

So much for learning how to drive. I hope Link cleared that experiment with her before handing me the keys. The Navigator - last year’s model at that – costs more than Link has spent on me since we met. I’ve seen the commercials, and can only imagine the insurance claims. If she wants my balls in a jar as recompense for wrecking it, I’d understand. I have no excuse. I shouldn’t have been behind the wheel, no matter how big Link’s puppy-dog eyes got or how excited he was to be able to give me a useful life skill.

I find it awfully difficult to say no to him, though.

The steering column takes two heaves with both hands for my rescuer to tear away, and some of the edge scrapes along my leg. The pain of broken skin – new and therefore interesting – washes away most of the double-dunked donut glaze from my brain. Think, Kaya. Prioritize.

The most pressing thing to do at the moment is to get out of the damn burning wreckage before your spook ass turns darker than your sense of humor. Fortunately, I have help.

“Okay. It’s okay, little brother. I’ve got you.” The Goron soothes, nearly dancing in place. If you’ve ever seen a Goron dance, well, you can understand why it’s not exactly soothing.

“One sec.” It’s a bit of a wiggle and a jump to clear what’s left of the frame, but means I don’t need to roll through broken glass and twisted metal, and am simultaneously capable of avoiding spraining an ankle while doing it. After the results of my first foray into driving, it’s good to know I can still stand on my own without screwing _that_ up. I think I’ll stick to walking for now. Well, walking and running. Running seems prudent.

Saints and Sages but Bullbos are big. The armor doesn’t negate my initial assessment, and only serves as an unsubtle reminder just how strong the fuckers are, too. That’s a lot of weight to be carrying around. The Bulblins on its back are around my height, but broader, heavier, and very well armed. Each of them has two daggers on the hip, a bow and a quiver, and the one further back has a club on its back while the one up nearer the head has a sword as sharp as the club strapped in a sheath on the Bullbo’s armor.

Thank fuck they don’t use magic as a matter of ethical principle. Not that either of them is capable of the focus required, but the ability is there, and I really, really don’t want to deal with a rampaging enemy proficient in both physical _and_ magical combat.

My Goron buddy is having precisely none of it, either.

“This way, hurry goro!” The emphatic slips out betraying his desire to hustle my bustle, and I look up – and up – in order to not have to talk to his navel.

“We going?” No sooner are the words out of my mouth than my rescuer hunches over to curl in on himself and roll off towards the four bay shopping center in the intersection back towards the Commissionaire’s sedan. Keeping an eye out for any sign of my erstwhile Lord Spoon for a block and a half of a full out sprint means I miss the sign telling me which particular neighborhood shopping center it is, but not the garish neon of the store itself.

_Ripped and Shredded_ _Board Shop_ isn’t exactly the type of franchise opportunity where I would have expected to find a Goron behind the counter, but I’m not exactly a stranger to the “whatever pays the bills” mentality. He’s been employed here long enough to have an apron made for a retail droid his size, complete with his name embossed across the bib.

“Welcome to Ripped and Shredded.” He chirps in a Pavlovian response as I let the door close behind me and it jangles the bells. “Uh. Yeah. Welcome. Sorry. I know you probably aren’t interested in buying anything, but at least it’s safe from the Bullbos in here.” Gorons can’t blush like most of the more humanoid races can, but the tones and vibrancy of embarrassment, stress, and exhaustion are exactly the same damn shade.

“No money.” I shrug, and move into the actual shop to get a better look at him and not the merchandise. I have exactly all of nothing to exchange with him for any of his wares, and since the power is on I have to assume the security cameras are, too. Staying away from the racks and shelves and cases, hands outside my pockets, and in clear view of a camera at all times is going to be my best defense aside from the massive clerk that could probably pick me up and crush me with one hand if I were the type to try and get a five finger discount.

Instead of staring at the long sleeved t-shirts and winter-weight buy-one-get-one hoodies that would be much more comfortable and effective than Lady Senza’s oversize cast-offs, I watch my impromptu rescuer with a jaded eye. What I thought initially was fear is still fear, but massively compounded by other underlying issues that – having experienced them myself – are depressingly familiar.

“Are you okay?” He asks before I can narrow down specifics as to what, exactly, is wrong with him. As my brain is currently pickling in what I’m pretty sure is shock, that’s a valid question. Since I’m not standing where I remember standing last, the answer is probably not. There are other, more important things than my memory of the last couple seconds that I’m missing, though.

“There was another person in the Navigator with me right before we crashed. A Hylian man, a little bigger than I am. Did you see what happened to him?” Please, Farore, let him have seen _something_ while I was taste-testing an air-bag with my entire face.

“A Hylian? No, I…I don’t know. It was weird.” He crosses arms the size of my torso across his massive chest. “I mean, the Bulblins showed up three days ago on their Bullbos and were just patrolling the streets until last night when the power came back on. Then they started attacking anyone…no, that’s not right. They started attacking any _vehicles_ that were moving, but always in pairs.” Sitting down is an effort that involves more grunting than a constipated pig in fresh mud, but he gets there. And stops.

I’m missing more than a couple seconds, apparently.

“Aside from the obvious, how was it weird?” I prompt. If the Bulblins have been here for days, but only recently changed their patterns, and he’s been here long enough to notice…he must be starving. That would explain the lack of vitality, though a minor case of depression probably doesn’t help. “And when did you last eat anything?”

“It was weird because there was only one Bullbo when I got to you. There should have been two, with two Bulblins on each. They always patrol in pairs.” He frowns. “I’m too big to sneak by them, and Mr. Derorin at Outset Sandwiches on the other end only takes cash, so it’s been four days since I’ve seen so much as a piece of gravel.” He sighs as only a Goron can, scratching his belly.

I owe him. Twice. Once for freeing me, and again for the information. Bulblins don’t do _anything_ that goes against the dictates of their King. That they would start patrolling the day after Link restored Korokshire and attacking anything resembling modern transportation the same day that Whittleton was cleansed _could_ simply be coincidence. I could also secretly enjoy watching day-time dramas while wearing frilly pink lace panties and having my nails done.

Or, Farore forbid, it could be that whoever is responsible for the Resurgence has coerced King Bulbin into directing his people to run interference and prevent the Hero from restoring the Champion’s Barrier any further than he already has. I need more information to prove anything, but don’t like where the current probability lies.

I have to find Link…but I owe Pyle. He didn’t hesitate to act in an emergency, and saved my skinny ass from the oversized, cursed, armored bacon on hooves. So…

Outset Sandwiches has enough franchise locations that if it’s meal time a spook in need can sneak in, use the washroom, and leave without having to buy anything. The clock on the wall says it’s just after one, so at least my luck is consistent. I’m missing more than just a few seconds, and will never get them back. Fuck, how hard did I rattle my brain?

That’s right, not hard enough. I _recognize_ Mr. Derorin working behind the counter, and, being the only other person in the store, he notices me right away. Sure as shit dribbles downhill. Our usual situation is utterly reversed, though. Up until now, I’ve been the one working while he’s just dropping off or picking up his Boy. Not that they’re biologically related.

Not that I’m in a position to kink-shame anyone.

“Huh.” He huffs – taking in my borrowed and/or bloody clothes, lack of food and sleep, blatant facial tattoo, just-got-into-an-accident fashion statement, and visibly comparing it to the serious grooming I did before hitting Ikana on Freeday and sometimes Hyday nights – then snorts. “What do you want, Spooky?” At least I’m still recognizable. So much has changed since I last spent my free evenings illegally funding my eating habit that I sometimes wonder if any of this is real. If I actually threw those eggs in the first place. 

I _think_ I hurt too much for this to be a particularly vivid fever dream, but I can’t be sure.

“A meal. I can work, but have no cash.” Admitting that straight out is also business as usual.

“You’re pretty, but not my type. Unless you only wilt professionally.” Crossing his massive, hairy arms over his chest, I learn something about his Boy that I had as much desire to know as I want someone to slowly pull out my toenails with the plastic salad tongs on the counter. Not only was the muscle-bound brick with bad teeth competition for tricks, but apparently he only bent over for the cash…before promptly getting utterly sloshed on his earnings and calling Mr. Derorin for a ride home.

…what a _fucking dick_. I could have happily lived the rest of my life without knowing that what I did for survival, he did for fun, and compromised my ability and the ability of at least two other wilting violets to make enough to eat. Two others _that I know of. _

_Asshole._

Not that I planned on bending over the prep counter for a rock-sirloin salad in the first place.

“I’m not doing that now.” I shake my head, and gesture at his full bins and dirty floor. At least I‘ve found my signs of habitation, especially if people are only leaving their homes when absolutely necessary and only on foot. “If I took out the trash and swept and mopped, would that cover a number nine combo? No drink.” Even if Pyle doesn’t have access to water, my Silver Scale works just fine.

“Looking to break your teeth? It’d be a shame to mess up your pretty face more than those matching shiners do.” Apparently I have two black eyes. Who knew? That explains why my face still throbs like the florescent bulb over the soup kettles.

“Pyle over at Ripped and Shredded hasn’t eaten in at least four days, and has no cash, either. I owe him.” I shrug, and get to see Mr. Derorin – or “Daddy, please?” as his Boy calls him – attempt to inhale his own face.

“That blockhead.” He mutters before turning his back on me and going to the prep station. “If that’s all you need, I can bring him this when it’s done. We’ll discuss payment later.”

Ominous, unsurprising, and good enough for now, especially when my _domine_ is A.W.O.L. Having achieved my favor for a favor means I can start searching for Link, starting at the last place I saw him.

Even a block and a half away, the smoking wreckage of what remains of Lady Senza’s Navigator is sobering, and Pyle’s extraction efforts didn’t help. The driver’s seat and surrounding area is simply _gone_, the shrapnel and twisted hunks barely identifiable. There’s a gaping imprint where the Bullbo’s horn sheared clean through the hood, crumpling metal, plastic, and glass alike, while an enthusiastic Goron with sledgehammers for fists took care of the rest.

The passenger side fared much better, and I can grab and drag the four duffle bags to the street with only a bit of effort. Chugging a pre-mixed red potion improves my mood almost as much as Link eating out my ass and then smashing my up-vote button did, and my face stops with the throbbing insistent ache of fresh bruising. My weaponry is intact, and I go for that next since there’s a Bullbo on the horizon heading straight for me. Link’s shield – the one he received on behalf of the Towne family’s guilt and not the one he initially bore – is gone. His sword is gone. He was holding his bow, and had a full quiver at his hip.

That still doesn’t explain why the fuck – _how_ the fuck – he decided that returning to the scene of the accident on the back of a Bullbo was the best thing since instant ramen.

“Ow! Damn it, Sheik!” He complains, more than a little pained but only a wee bit singed. Urbosa’s Fury isn’t easy to pull once unleashed, and he ate most of it. I got the rest as soon as my brain could stop my body from completing the snap.

Another red potion in less than a minute takes care of the burns on my fingertips and starts working on some of the minor damage – scrapes and cuts from the steering column and glass, mostly – that I’ve been carting around like the Amber Relics Link has taken to collecting.

“Sorry, you startled me.” I toss him a bottle and extract my vengeance for not warning me he was the one on the Bullbo – by I don’t know, yelling or something, or waving a flag even – by not warning him about the taste.

He’s eaten my ass. It’s ass flavored. The red potion is worse.

Not as bad as magic boosters. I’d still rather suck on a chunk of Pyle’s rock-sirloin salad, and apparently he feels the same. I forgot he drank some potion while we were stay-cationing at Lady Senza’s, and understand why he’d be reluctant to drink it now.

It’s just a little electrocution, nothing a massage and maybe another low-grade repair spell over-night tonight won’t fix. The one I have on him now can’t do shit, since it’s the wrong type, but the right one is easy. It’s not like I haven’t cast them on myself more times than I care to count, and he’s a terminal cuddler. He’ll be close enough for me to maintain it easily, and shouldn’t have to suffer for literally bringing home the bacon.

The moment my master dismounts the specifically bred beast of burden, it does what any sensible herd animal would do, and fucks right off to find more of its kind.

Link stumbles just far enough to pass out in my arms, his right arm clearly broken beneath the deeply cracked shield. He’s _heavy_. Too heavy for me to catch properly, though I can slow his descent to the ground.

What the actual fuck did he _do?!_

Broken arm. Bruised chest…seatbelt, that would have been the seatbelt. Bloodied lip, bitten tongue, and unless the Bulblins have precisely the same eating habits, that’s _his_ barfed breakfast on his boots. Maybe a concussion? That would do the trick.

All slightly steaming from my pulled Fury, which is probably what made him pass out. Non-life threatening as long as the comminuted compound fracture doesn’t nick an artery before I can stabilize it for transport. Before the Bulblins come back. No pressure, Kaya. You got this.

…_fuck_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What tf did Link do? Find out next chapter!  
If you've noticed what's been happening to Sheik over the last dozen chapters as a build up to chapter 23, congratulations and I'm sorry.
> 
> Starting fourth chapter of next part of The Calamity is Calling and still not happy with any of the shortlisted titles for it so I'm probably going to just...wait for a 3AM moment of utter crack and use that. Yes.
> 
> For everyone who's been reading this up to this point, ilu.  
For everyone who picks this up later and reads it, you're awesome.  
For everyone who kudos/comments/bookmarks, you're awesome and ilu.


	20. A Smashing Good Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Violence, Injury, Mild Gore  
Warnings: Pain and associated disorientation, vomit, prostitution, language (in a Link chapter, I know!)
> 
> As always, if there are any warnings I missed, please let me know and I will update accordingly.
> 
> Link's POV  
Action sequences are hard

There’s no time.

The low rumble resolves into the rapid drumming of a Bullbo’s charge from Sheik’s side, which ends in one deep, harsh, grunt and then…everything happens at once. Suddenly. Violently. The shearing whine of the metal of the Navigator’s hood. The crunch and tinkle of broken glass. The pop and hiss of the airbags. The groan of bending steel. The scrape of the tires being dragged backwards on the asphalt. The abrasive grind and hot liquid sizzle as the Bullbo pulls its horn free of the wreckage and rears, bellowing in triumph.

There’s a moment of silence. The dust and airbags settle.

I’m…fine. I bit my lip, but by the time I touch it, it’s already stopped bleeding. I’m fine, but I’m not the only one in the vehicle.

Sheik groans, telling me he’s alive. Caught within the crushed and twisted frame, but the Navigator’s touted design features have worked and saved him from being pulverized in the initial impact. He’s _alive_. Stunned, but alive. The Bullbo squeals. Four unfamiliar, guttural voices rise in laughter.

_Bulblins_.

I don’t know why they’re here in blatant contempt of our Treaties – ceding them land for their farms as long as they do not engage in hostilities against the other peoples of Hyrule – and I don’t care. I _don’t_. Not when that binding promise is broken. They’re obviously here, and not on their farms, and ramming a civilian vehicle with livestock in full battle armor counts as a hostile action in my book.

If I were alone, my training in one of Hyrule’s oldest martial arts would mean I have a Duty to Retreat so as not to escalate violence in an urban area. But a retreat here and now means the Bulblins – with their clubs and their bows and arrows and unprovoked attack – can follow. It means leaving Sheik completely undefended, now that his protective magic has shattered more thoroughly than the windshield. My duty as a Knight of Hyrule – the oaths I took to protect the weak and vulnerable – supersede my duty to keep the peace.

Sometimes, offense is the best defense.

Sometimes, distraction works even better.

Undoing my seatbelt, pushing the still hot remains of the passenger airbags off my lap and ignoring what will probably become bruising, later, I take up my sword and the round shield from the Towne family. As I will be fighting on foot, it provides better protection and more maneuverability than my family’s traditional crested heater shield. The round shield’s lighter, too, which lets me move faster. The door falls open with a touch, jarred from its frame with the force of the impact, the brunt of which was taken by the driver’s side.

Intentionally. Delivered by the larger of the two Bullbos, snorting and squealing in triumph as it dances in place. The one with more armor to protect it, directed by the Bulblins on its back to do the most damage as quickly as possible to unsuspecting victims. Terrorizing innocents by keeping them in their homes. No _wonder_ the streets are deserted, if this is what is waiting for anyone who dares to try and leave. Unacceptable.

No more.

I don’t know much magic, really. Definitely not as much as I should. I just…find it incredibly boring, and there were so many other things that are so much more engaging that I never pursued it past elementary school requirements. But I do know some. Enough to help a little bit in a fight, because – as first Sir Grimblade, and then later Ashei instructed – it would be foolish not to use all the skills at my disposal. Tetra deserves better than a fool.

Sheik can call light to hand and hold it for hours, while maintaining other more complicated spells and holding a conversation. I’m lucky to manage half a second, and it takes all of my focus to do it. But I can, when I need to. He led the Bloat away from me when I was incapacitated in the woods to keep me safe. Now I get to return the favor.

The bright flash of light is effective both as a means of getting the Bulblins’ attention and temporarily blinding them at the same time, and even they can’t mistake my shouted challenge for anything but exactly what it is. Then the game is on.

Ducking behind my shield in a crouch, bracing the round frame at an angle to deflect and absorb from above and in front, the arrows come a moment later. Four of them, two sinking deep into the wood, one narrowly missing, and one so wide of the mark I have to wonder if the Bulblin that fired it was aiming at all. A second volley follows, then a third. I’m close enough to the Navigator’s remains that I can hear Sheik breathing and they can’t get around to attack from behind, so after the fourth set of arrow impacts I risk the exposure required to return fire.

Except I use a bomb arrow instead of the standard field arrows they’ve been using, and mine hits right where I mean it to in order to distract, not destroy. Directly in front of the Bulblin holding the reigns of the smaller Bullbo, cracking the giant pig’s criniere and unseating the Bulblin with the small explosion. Without direction, the Bullbo panics and flees, its deafening squeals making me wince even as I turn to the remaining Bulblins and charge.

Straight up their Bullbo’s nose.

They’re not expecting it, and haven’t been trained for a direct assault by an individual on foot. Sheik would be screaming at me for trying it, if he could see. Tetra – who’s known me longer and was by my side through most of my childhood and all of my teenage years – would just shake her head and sigh. Malon would be cheering me on, and then probably try it herself. There are plenty of handholds for me to grab onto. Plenty of places to put my feet.

I have the first Bulblin disarmed and unseated before the second can draw an arrow from the quiver, and keep my momentum to slam my shield into them head on. Just like the other Bullbo slammed into Senza’s S.U.V., the impact rocks them backward, unbalanced. Just like Sheik, that Bulblin is stunned for a moment after impact, and takes just the tiniest shove to get them following their partner to the ground so the Bullbo is without anyone or anything to guide it into ramming more vehicles. Or people.

It won’t be hurting anyone else again anytime soon, disoriented and down. Controlled, and therefore no longer a threat. The entire fight has taken less than thirty seconds, leaving my blood boiling and my hands itching to draw my sword and make certain this particular group of Bulblins doesn’t try anything like this again…but I can’t. They obey their King in a way that makes the Bond of a Sheik look like Hylia’s gracious mercy, and _everyone_ knows about it.

From the way they turn tail and run – not even bothering to _attempt_ to fight back or retake their mount – they probably don’t really want to be here, and from what little I know of their culture, will be punished severely on their return. The Bulblins, however, aren’t my only concern. I have time for a moment’s pity before the Bullbo I’m standing on decides it wants to run.

A boar in full charge is _terrifying_. I learned that the summer of ’30 when Malon invited us out to Lon Lon for a month of working on the Nature Preserve. They’re big, and smart, and fast, and strong, and _loud_. A Bullbo is all those things multiplied exponentially, and I’m on the back of one without so much as a helmet.

All there is to do is drop into the saddlebag that the second Bulblin was in and hold onto the straps that I find there. A quiver of field arrows and another quiver full of arrows with Runes for ignition stamped into the shafts rattles alongside my teeth – because a boar’s charge is not the most graceful thing – and what looks like a ration pack and first-aid kit. I dare not let go long enough to check. Every powerful, bounding stride takes me further from Sheik, which is further from Tetra, and closer to a narrow Rapid Transit Shuttle overpass barely wide enough to admit a single Goron transport cart single-file.

The Bullbo isn’t slowing down, and is much wider than the warning signs at the last intersection indicate before the sidewalk starts dropping on the approach. The incline helps it pick up speed. Pigs are smart. This one must know I am _not_ its regular handler, and wants me off. That’s really the only explanation for its behavior that I have, and as the cement and steel barrier gets closer and closer and narrows dramatically, I don’t have _time_ to think, just act.

The leather straps holding the Bullbo’s light armor in place give me something to grab onto and scramble up to the bristled mane, flattening myself on its back just in time to go through the tunnel at top speed. The fire arrows ignite as the saddlebag is destroyed, leaving a trail of burning pieces of wood and leather in the dark maw of the tunnel as we burst through the other side, the Bullbo squealing in pain and rage. Shaking to dislodge the last of the saddlebag from its side and possibly me from its top. Bucking.

I bite my tongue and taste blood, but hold on for dear life until the kicking and flailing and screaming Bullbo calms into twitching and grunting, its side still smoking and smelling of burnt hair and smoldering garbage. Just when I think I may be able to relax my grip and possibly get off, it rears. Pivots. Charges the tunnel again, using the other side to avoid the still burning scraps of the Bulblin basket in the roadway.

With a heave, I push off the bristle and slide down its protective hump of fat, into what is essentially the driver’s seat. The straps there are thicker, and grabbing them is the only thing that keeps me from becoming airborne as the Bullbo jumps _inside_ the tunnel. Dislodging dust and dirt and cracking the cement overhead, all in an effort to get rid of the Hylian interloper that was – less than a second ago – on its back.

Now I’m on its face, so it starts ramming cars and trucks and a bus in the same maneuver that it used to take Senza’s Navigator from one of the smoothest commercially available rides to a pile of recyclable scrap lying in the roadway. Goddess, there goes my entire discretionary budget for the next four years…but it kept Sheik safe through the complete destruction of his side of the S.U.V., and my Epona definitely wouldn’t have. I’ll make it work, even if that means postponing the wedding until I can pay for my fair share.

The driver’s seat – well, basket – is positioned in such a way that the Bullbo can smash itself face first into as many vehicles as it wants, and I still won’t get hit. Just…massive property damage, and I know there are traffic cameras that show me as the only one riding the blasted creature. I need to stop its rampage so I’m not held liable. Telma would murder me in my sleep.

The straps I’m holding are tied to the basket, which is encased in rawhide leather, which is riveted to the Bullbo’s chanfron with incredible workmanship. The reigns dangle over the same side that I tossed the disarmed Bulblin, and Bulblin arms are longer than mine. Longer, proportionally, than any Hylian or Human’s arms, a lot like chimpanzees. I can’t reach the reigns themselves, but find a pouch that is filled to the brim with chunks of hearty pumpkins close by.

Opening it stops the Bullbo in its tracks.

…it can’t be that easy.

It’s not. The moment I pull one of the chunks from the sack and hesitate, we’re back to the bucking and bellowing and kicking. I drop the hearty pumpkin in favor of grabbing the straps again, and wait until the Bullbo has licked the last remnant and some of the paint from the road before standing up again. Wrapping the strap around my shield arm for balance just in case it decides to ram the nearby black town car while I’m reaching for another hunk is a mistake, because as soon as I have a second pumpkin chunk in hand it squeals and twists and jumps, all at once.

I hear something that sounds an awful lot like breaking a bundle of dried spaghetti in half so it will fit in a smaller pot, but muffled…and then it hurts. A _lot_. I drop that piece of pumpkin too, and can’t hold in the bark of pain as I curl in on my shield arm and whine. The pressure cracked my shield, and there are jagged bits of bone poking through both my sleeves and the skin. I have a second to stare in numb fascination as the bloody mess becomes bloodier before it really hits.

Then I throw up. Hot and sour, it seeps through the basket to get caught by the rawhide as the basket sways while the Bullbo eats the pumpkin. I have to – it’s not as gory as what the bunny-leech did to Sheik’s arm, but it’s bad – so I need to stabilize it. Oh, _Goddess_. I…need to stabilize it. I need to! I need to calm down. Stabilize the injury. Just like Sheik’s. Just…

_"Fuck!"_

Yeah, swearing helps.

At least it’s my off-hand, and help is close by. Drawing my sword makes the Bullbo dance, but when I only use it to cut the strap responsible for breaking my arm in at least two places, it calms enough to hold still while I use my teeth and good hand to bind the leather around the base of my bicep in a make-shift tourniquet. Sheathing my sword is more work – and I throw up again doing it – but manage.

I don’t dare try to take my arm out of the straps of my shield for better access. The shield’s remains are too tight, and are acting as a sort of splint that stabilizes the whole…oh, Goddess. I have to breathe hard to avoid throwing up yet again, and kick at the basket to release some of the tension instead when a hard heave doesn’t bring up anything more.

There’s no first-aid kit in this basket…but my ride seems to have taken the second piece of hearty pumpkin as a sign I am an acceptable rider. Or maybe it was my grunting, panting, squealing, and snorting that got through to it. Either way, one of the Bulblin’s arrows extends my reach enough to snag up the reigns, and tossing a chunk of pumpkin in the right direction turns the Bullbo around and gets it trotting back towards the wreck. Back towards Sheik, who both can and will help. If he’s conscious.

Please let him be conscious. I don’t think I will be for much longer if the black spots are any indication. They keep getting bigger, and each steps the Bullbo takes makes more of them appear. I really hope it’s nothing more than sweat trickling down my leg like it trickles down my forehead. Down the small of my back. I can’t tell, and trying to twist my head without moving my arm has the black spots threatening to take over.

My Sheik is like a beacon, lighting the way through them.

Thank Hylia for answering my prayers so promptly. Not only is he conscious, but up and moving around. He must have had to burst the wreck to get out, because he’s managed to make it even more of a wreck while I was gone, but he’s out. Getting the duffle bags from the back. The red potion. Oh, Blessed First Mother, _thank you_ for putting him in my life, and making him so competent. So smart. So pretty.

Even dirty, shaken, tired, and disheveled, he’s so, so pretty. The Eye covering the right side of his face doesn’t detract from that, though the bruises certainly do. I’m probably biased. It’s still startling…or that could be the snappy-fingers-lightning-magic that crackles through the air and jolts through my entire body.

“Ow! Damn it, Sheik!” Not having anything left to throw up is the only reason I don’t, and keep back a pained whimper by biting down on my barely clotted tongue, making it bleed again. The black spots take over for a second, leaving me disoriented for longer than I like.

“Sorry, you startled me.” He apologizes. I know better than to drink the red potion he tosses me before my arm has been at least sort of put back together, and can climb out of the driver’s seat only because the Bulblin’s legs are so much shorter, using the reigns for stability to reach the ground safely. Panting harshly from that simple task. Finally freed of its unwanted passenger, the Bullbo runs away, and I turn to see Sheik’s red, red eyes widen and hear him gasp as the black spots eat me whole.

Over and over and over, he gasps in time with a wet squelching as the Bullbo eats pumpkin chunks with little grunts of pleasure. I can’t really see anything yet, the spots swelling and popping and turning the world sideways. Light and shadow and movement, but that’s it.

“Oh, that’s fucking _tight_.” The Bullbo snorts, bucking and blocking the light in flickers and flashes and the groan of creaking leather.

“Ngh, hnyah, ah, oh…_fuck_.” Sheik whines, breathless and pained. The Bullbo, snorting, starts moving at a trot, but they’ve got it backwards. Sheik should be riding the Bullbo, not the other way around. There’s no way he could carry that much weight on his back. I must be dreaming again. The flickering stops as soon as I realize that, and the world goes dark.

When next I open my eyes, it smells musty, and musky, and damp, and I have no idea where I am. Again. This time my locale isn’t nearly as nice as the last, though. Mildew and mold decorate the plastic blinds less than arm’s length from my face, covering a window-box air conditioner in a cracked pane. It’s cold aside from where Sheik is curled up against my chest, and the springs inside the thin, bare mattress poke into my side uncomfortably. Electricity hums, audible beneath the soft spring rain outside. We have one blanket between us, no pillows, and are both still dressed in yesterday’s bloodstained clothes.

Rolling so I can see more of the space nearly puts me on the floor, and I barely catch myself from falling with my right arm. The motion sends lightning quick pulses of pain throughout the limb, but it holds. It’s solid. Healed, with the spider-web lines of what would have been permanent scars if not for Sheik’s polyphonic melody finishing what red potion couldn’t. I know because his arm looked like this two days ago, though mine was comparatively less missing tissue and more damage to both tissue and bone.

I clench and release my palm, watching the bone, sinew, tendons, skin, and muscle ripple with motion. It’s tight, and aches, but I can use it. So I do, straightening the blanket before draping the limb over his side. He shudders, moaning softly in his sleep, and I know what woke me up so early, barely after dawn.

Wherever we are, he’s caught in the start of a nightmare. A particularly ugly one, if the tears are any indication. I’m…tired, but I know that if I don’t do something now, it will just get worse, eventually waking him up and keeping me from going back to sleep. He must have moved me and healed me on his own. Again. Hopefully yesterday. The least I can do in return is soothe his subconscious fears away and let him rest.

Shifting closer on the twin mattress, I tangle our legs. Pull him tighter against me. Pet his still bound hair. Rub the base of his skull with my thumb. Kiss his forehead and eyelids ever so gently. Brush away his tears. Hum, softly, letting him know I’m here. That he’s safe from whatever monsters chase his dreams. He sniffs, and stills, breaths slowing and evening out into a peaceful rhythm that’s as restful as it is soothing. Pressing my lips against his crown once more, I close my eyes and follow him back down for just a little more sleep.

Daylight makes this place more appalling, and lets me see the dirt ground into the corners in addition to the mold on the curtains and water-stains on the ceiling and walls. I’m alone on the mattress – I refuse to call it a proper bed with no box-spring, bedding, headboard, or pillows – which is also stained with…fluids. I hope it’s simply sweat. It smells, and the floor is gritty under my feet.

Kahti’s place was cleaner, for all this place is legal and his definitely wasn’t. I follow the threads of a familiar melody for direction, and hope nothing from the mattress comes along for the ride to end up biting me later.

The bedroom door is leaning against the wall next to the door frame, letting me look out into the reception room that is also a kitchen, dining room, parlor, and storage closet. I have to squeeze behind a cracked, sagging, and worn leather couch to leave the room, and then back-track the other way because a lot of our gear that was in the Navigator is now sitting in the reception room on the floor, including our bikes.

Sheik is...gorgeous. Leaning against the wall next to the folding card table that is also the dining table with a breakfast sandwich in one hand and paper cup full of coffee, he waves his sandwich at me and does the chin-pointing thing towards another wrapped sandwich and paper cup on the table, his mouth full. He’s eating, of his own volition, and has showered, shaved, and dressed in unfamiliar clothing, damp hair loose and long and draped over his shoulder. The shirt and jacket are new.

They look really, really good on him, and his fresh shave and water-dark hair reminds me that I need to do the same. After sleeping where I slept – even if I was clean going to bed, and I definitely wasn’t – I’d need a bath. My skin feels like there’s something crawling across it…and my arm feels normal. Whole. Healthy. Strong. Skin smooth and clear. All thanks to his efforts. It has to be. I don’t remember anything after getting off the Bullbo except for his eyes.

“There’s an Outset Early Riser for you…” Sheik swallows his bite, and wipes a little bit of grease from the corner of his mouth with his thumb as I move closer. “…and tea. Four cream, two…mm.” Instead of sitting down to the meal, I tilt his chin up with both hands on his face, and kiss him soundly. Deeply, surprising him. In the space of a breath he softens against me, and if it weren’t for the damp funk of the wall, I would press him against it and take my time thanking him in a way I know he understands. Instead – because I’m not sure the wall will hold – I have to use my words.

“Goddess, Sheik. I love you so much.” I breathe, softly, lest the volume of my declaration scares him away. He flushes and averts his eyes, pulling back a little bit, but doesn’t tense up again and doesn’t run. Letting me kiss him. “Thank you for saving me.” Again. “For healing me.” And again. “For feeding me.” And again.

“It’s going to get cold.” He protests, nudging me away with his wrist, holding his coffee carefully away from our bodies. “Eat it, before the entire thing congeals with the wrapping and gains the potential for sentience.”

“Fill me in. What happened after I passed out?” Taking the hint, sliding into the plastic chair carefully, I pick up the breakfast sandwich and make a face. I can feel the grease through the waxed paper, and am thankful for the large tea to wash it down.

“I left you lying in the street, sprawled out like a bad date.” He rolls his eyes, and takes another bite of his sandwich. I feel my jaw drop.

“You did not.” He wouldn’t, not after the effort he went to getting me away from the Lizalfos and Bokoblins last time. He invaded someone’s _home_, for Hylia’s sake!

“Did too.” He insists through his mouthful. He sips his coffee again before quirking his lips, covering his mouth to talk so I don’t get a see-food breakfast. “Not for long, of course, but I wasn’t going to drag you anywhere with an injury like that when there was a Goron near-by to help. He carried you here, too.”

“A Goron?”

“Pyle cor Rogaro. He works at Ripped and Shredded Board Shop downstairs. We’re in the apartments above the twenty-fourth avenue strip mall. Breakfast is from Outset Sandwiches. X-rays and local anesthesia were done at the vet clinic so I didn’t fuck up fixing the arm you managed to fuck up first, but that used the last of our ready cash. Zunari’s Convenience provided the coffee and tea as thanks for getting rid of the Bulblins.” My Sheik lists casually before taking another bite and chewing slowly.

I do the same, and try not to wrinkle my nose. There’s nothing _technically_ wrong with the food – It’s just a low quality version of what I usually have when waffles aren’t available – but it’s very, very greasy. Oily. Salty. Sweetened, with a lot of preservatives, and very, very cheap.

“How far off course are we?” Instead of complaining, I can ask questions, plan, and take small bites to get the food down while Sheik talks. The sooner we can leave, the sooner we can find Tetra, and the sooner things will go back to normal.

“Not far. I’ll double check while you do your three ‘S’es.” He murmurs, popping the last bite into his mouth.

“My what?” I don’t think I’ll be able to finish my sandwich, even though I’m hungry. It’s just too much filler, and not enough food.

“Shit, shower, shave.” He explains. “There’s a clean pair of pants in the second duffle bag, and a new shirt to take in to the bathroom with you.”

“Does it match yours?” I can’t help but ask, grinning. He looks really, really good in it, which makes me want to take him out of it, and there are a number of reasons why I shouldn’t. Number one is my promise, and even though there are things we can do that don’t involve penetration, he doesn’t seem to be satisfied without it. Number two is finding Tetra, and doing whatever needs to be done to keep her safe. Number three is our timeline, because I don’t think whoever or whatever caused this disaster planned on ending it here. Number four is location…this apartment is just dirty.

“Goddesses, no! I’ve got a soft winter skin tone, while you’re more of a true summer. Cool undertones, but the intensity and saturation of what looks good on us is different, and that’s why I think your olive green loungers should be burned. They’re for a deep autumn palette, which you are very much not.” He grumbles before chugging the last of his coffee, leaving me wondering what he’s talking about. I have to assume he was born in the winter, and should find out for sure…but so was I, so I have no idea what a true summer means.

“Uh…okay?” Whatever his seasonal reference point is, I don’t get it.

“Just…trust me, please?” He sighs. “You’ll look good in it, I promise.” And he would know. Aside from Senza, he’s got the best fashion sense of all the people I specifically want to look good for.

“Okay.” I grin up at him, and finish my tea, crumpling the last quarter of my breakfast sandwich up in the wrap. My stomach doesn’t like how much oil I’ve stuck in it already, so I hope I can just grab something else as soon as we can hit an A.T.M. and a grocery or restaurant that’s still open. I don’t like carrying much cash, but with the power grid unstable, I’ll have to make it a habit until everything gets back to normal.

Which won’t be today. Or tomorrow. Barely five blocks out from the remains of Senza’s S.U.V., the utilities are still down. Bulblins on more Bulbos patrol the roads in pairs. The discordant shriek of the crying sky howls through my bones, making my recently healed arm ache. The freezing rain doesn’t help, and covers the sound of the patrols moving on the side-streets, leaving Sheik to approach each intersection on foot and peer around the corner before we can continue.

Empty vehicles on empty roads mean that we have to stop frequently to hide or risk being involved in a fight every time we come across a patrol, which slows us to something a little less than walking pace despite still having wheels. We can’t leave the bikes behind, they’re too valuable. We couldn’t even take everything from our packs – leaving the surplus behind with an amiable Pyle – and without the bikes we would have even less than our weapons, packs, a week’s worth of food, the tent, our sleeping bags, and a single change of clothing apiece.

Sheik hisses something profane through his teeth that I lose to the rain, and stands up, beckoning me over to look as well.

Tetra is less than twenty blocks away…and we might not get there. Not with _that_ blocking the streets. There has to be at least a dozen Bullbos, each of them bearing multiple riders but for the one in the middle. That one carries a Bulblin four times larger than the rest, and I know from that alone that someone else is calling the shots. The King never leaves his lands. None of the Bulblins do. Not one. For _centuries_.

Yet here they are.

Crouching down to make myself as small of a target as possible while Sheik fights off a round of hyperventilating, I watch. Listen as best I can, trying to figure out what is going on. Not knowing their language, with each word muffled as it is by the rain, I don’t get much. There has to be a reason they’re here.

“Malice.” Sheik murmurs, answering the question I’m not sure I asked. He’s been quiet today, and moving carefully. Tired. Subdued, but not withdrawn. I can hardly blame him when I feel the same. I just want to eat six of Gillian’s meals, shower in my own shower, and sleep in my own bed with Tetra, Malon, or Sheik at my side. Preferably all three, if it were at all possible. That part of me is probably different from what he wants specifically. Generally though, we’re on the same page, even though he’s almost as quiet as he was with the damn scarf over his face. He’s probably over-thinking something, most likely triggered by whatever he was dreaming about that made him cry in his sleep.

“Hm?” I ask, and his breath shudders as he steadies himself again the wall and joins me in my observation of our potential enemies.

“They’re infected with Malice. See King Bulblin? That large carnelian diadem? It’s _seething_ with the same aetheric pattern that blocked Lady Senza’s stairs. He’s been Corrupted.”

“And where their King goes, all Bulblins go.” The absolute authority of the Bulblin King over his subjects – won through combat no less – is the only reason we were able to sign such binding Treaties with them in the first place. Unlike the Gorons, Zora, Sheikah, Kokiri, Gerudo, and Yeti, those Treaties were designed to be permanent…until the stars burn out and the rivers turn to dust. I don’t remember much more than that, because breaking or renegotiating them was never supposed to enter the realm of possibility. I didn’t need to know. It was _settled_.

They’re still here.

Now that I’m not reacting, not nearly as angry, I need to know _why_. Who suggested it. When it happened. Where. How.

No time like the present to find out.

“By the hundred little gods, Link! _What are you doing?!_” Sheik hisses, falling into step with me one pace back and to the right as I free my shield, but leave my sword sheathed. Prepared, but not aggressive.

“Getting answers.” I whisper back as we’re noticed…and not immediately charged.

“Saints and Sages preserve us.” He whispers, but adds another layer to the Nayru’s Love he cast in the apartment before we left. I risk a quick smile in his direction before trying my best to look stern and official as we get in range of Bullbo horns and hooves.

“King Bulblin!” Pitching my voice to carry, I lift a hand to the hilt of my sword, but do not draw. “My name is Lincoln Fitzherbert von Hestu the Fourth, intended of Princess Tetra Anne Zelda Hyrule, Earl of Korokshire, Knight of Hyrule. By the authority of my station you will answer for the breaking of our Treaties and the invasion of our capital city!”

One of the Bullbos in full caparison barding moves, and the Bulblin in the archer’s perch speaks to the King. When they’re done, the King lifts the face plate of his helmet, and grins at me.

He’s breathtakingly ugly, though compared to the rest, that’s better than average.

“You serve a weak master, little warrior. Your King is dead, his court scattered to the winds. Yet you claim his authority over your own. Fool! But my warriors say you fight well, so your strength shall determine your worth.” He grunts out, the Hyrulean syllables harsh in his mouth. “Win, and I shall grant you your answer. Lose, and I shall claim the one who stinks of magic as my own. Forfeit, and I will kill you where you stand.”

…oops. That didn’t go at all the way I planned. Not that I really _planned_ anything beyond finding out _why_.

“Well, that went well. Do you want the slow clap before or after he crushes our skulls and serves up our brains like scrambled eggs?” Sheik grouses, hiding his terror behind a muted version of his normal piss and vinegar.

“I just have to challenge him…” Somehow. “…and win.”

“Oh, is that all?” He scoffs.

“Do you have a better idea?” I ask, and deliberately turn my back on the Bulblin King to look him in the eye. It’s steady as he looks back at me. The diadem he was talking about is sitting over the King’s helmet, between his horns, a single onyx jewel glinting red in the center. If I destroy it, free him from the Corruption, then everything should work out. It will. Yes. It has to. “Let me borrow a dagger, and one of the explosive tags.”

“What?” If nothing else, my Sheik has mastered the art of raising a single eyebrow to convey his skepticism.

“I need one of your daggers, and an explosive tag. I have an idea.” It might work…or it might not. There’s no time to explain.

“Is it as brilliant as your last one?” He asks, but hands over what I want with no further questions. To partially conceal both weapons, I lean in and kiss him the way I wanted to over breakfast. He helps by moaning loudly, and clinging until I have them tucked away safely.

“Only as brilliant as you are.” I tell him, and turn around, leaving him gaping after me with his mouth open and lips swollen.

“Oh, _fuck_ _you_, you…you fucking _spoon_!” He shouts, confident and sure – if wholly irritated – letting me go find my answers with a lighter step.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, Face? Meet palm. Link, you himbo.
> 
> In other news, as soon as I'm done updating here, I'll be scooting over to Crumbs for all ya'll pervs to post part of Sheik's part in this chapter through the eyes of a very, very minor character that probably (maybe?) won't appear again until late in the next part of The Calamity is Calling series...and adding a bunch more warnings, that will be necessary, regarding both the particular POV and what happens. (and this will be a one-shot, completely unnecessary to the story, so if it's not your thing, don't read, you're not missing anything that isn't alluded to here)


	21. Dissatisfaction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Link: just a little, as a treat?  
Sheik: uh, how about no?  
Link: it'll be fine, hold my beer!~<3  
Sheik: asdklagjfdlkhadfghasdfglkh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: Violence, Vomit, Mild PTSD Symptoms, Intrusive Thoughts, Language  
Warnings: Gore, Blood, Minor Character/Enemy Death, Cannibalism, Injury, Murderous Intent  
FC*: 29
> 
> *see endnotes for the source of the FC (fuck count) inspiration.

What…

…did he…just…?…

…he did.

Farore, _fuck_ _it all_.

Yelling at him doesn’t seem to help anything, and I can only bury my face in my hands so long before I have to come up for air. Then Nayru’s Blessing starts flaring up…and he’s still walking.

Goddesses Kaya, you lightly perforated meat sack stuffed with pure, uncut dumbass. When did you become the kind of idiot to write home about? _Of course_ he’s going to confront an entire fully staffed platoon of Bulblins on his own and challenge their King to mortal combat, because that makes _perfect_ sense. Alone, if you don’t follow him. He’s the bloody _fucking_ Hero. That’s what he does.

You are just…just…

…just his Sheik. Or whatever. Companion. Advisor. Support. Shield. Whore. _His_. Fucking nut up and act like it for once in your Din damn life.

Don’t run to catch up, either. Go, and go with all the dignity and grace you can manage in the freezing rain. _Try _not to slip and fall on your aching ass while you’re at it. Mr. Derorin’s “Boy” pounded it hard enough last night you can add tenderized to your list of socially inappropriate but still technically accurate adjectives.

“I accept your conditions, and have three of my own. One, I reserve the right to set the task. Two, no outside interference. This will be a contest between the two of us, alone. Three, while we are competing, no harm shall come to my Sheik.” Link demands, playing the pompous little prig for all he’s worth. Like he’s an actual Knight. Which he is. Hereditary – with the Earldom of Korokshire – but to use the title and legitimately rank his decoration he had to have passed a written, oral, and physical exam, and taken an oath to serve Hyrule.

The land, his liege, and all the peoples under the Goddess’ grace.

Much simpler and shorter than the training and bondage of a Sheik, but he still had to do it. Eran swore his around the same time Numar turned his patella, tibia, and fibula into a double handful of gravel, and since I was six then, Eran would have been eleven. Almost twelve. Just in time to start training to earn his shield. Something about that being the age when the Hero is said to have come into his destiny or some other pseudo-religious excuse for caste enforcement bullshit.

At least they stopped dressing all the pubescent noble Hylian brats in green tunics for ceremonial presentation to Hylia in the Church. Some Traditionalists still do it, but thank the Fierce Deity most modern families have a little more sense. Not every Hylian boy-child will be a Hero, and that expectation – _failing _that expectation, and still getting all the rights but none of the responsibilities – turns out more arrogant Grease-Weasels and psychopathic Forelocks than awkward and timorous Lord Niko’s.

Thinking of Numar – which I usually try to avoid, especially in the spring and in the rain – means I remember the day before his accident when the Lord Patriarch came to visit all the _esclavin _brats at the Training Grounds. _All_ the _esclavin _brats, because even the babies for Princess Tetra were there for his visit and blessing. I remember Princess Hilda was trying to keep Princess Tetra from running off to ruin her dress in a puddle, because it was raining then, too.

Eran was bored.

We were _for him_, and starting to learn how to Draw Shadows for concealment, having just mastered Jump that summer. The same Jump that turned Numar’s leg into a skin sack filled with blood and bone fragments the day after. That day though, nothing could hurt us. My _konlega _– brothers in spirit – and I were progressing nicely with our training. Eran visited us every chance he got. Most of the others liked him, but I…I adored him. Would do anything for him. To my six-year-old self he was the perfect prince, becoming the perfect king.

Some dreams die hard and brutal.

Mine was bored. It showed everywhere but his posture and face, but I knew. _We_ knew. All of us, because that was all we did, every day, whenever he was there. Through scrying when he wasn’t, though that took at least three of us working in tandem to manage. We were to watch, interpret, and attend to his needs and wants and fancies before he could ask. End of day was a lecture on how we could do better. Be better, because a lot of _our_ practical schooling was just like life, where the test comes first and the lesson after.

And that day was our first very _public_ test.

One that probably made Grand Master Impa pull out her hair in frustration, now that I think about it…a lot of what we did would have, actually. Luckily, her mountain lineage ensured it was already white as driven snow.

I miss…nearly all of them. All the ones I remember, and I remember more than is useful to be remembering, now, but I can’t _not_ remember. I can’t lose the simplicity of that happiness, or dismiss my intrusive thoughts just because they’re inconvenient. I just _can’t_. That’s why they’re called intrusive thoughts. It’s faster – if more painful – to let them play out.

That day, I don’t remember whose idea it was or who started it, but we all helped. All of us. Because Eran was bored, and we were for him. Entirely. I Look to Link now – and take my place at his side in the freezing rain before King Muffin-Top with Malice sprinkles – but am still caught in a memory of another time and another place with another man who was, once upon a time, my purpose.

I _do_ remember the look on Eran’ face as Lord Rauru’s robes “mysteriously” billowed out as a raucous blart of noise boomed through the speaker of the microphone he had been yakking into. Wet. Rippling. Loud. It startled the fat old man badly enough that a real one slipped out, and I was close enough to hear, smell, and feel the warm air of that one.

Eran _smiled_ before he could control his expression. I couldn’t keep holding my corner of the robe and keep my own face under control – too much pride and joy and fierce pleasure from those glowing rose and brilliant gold tones for me to understand what it was and why I wanted it so fucking badly – so I dropped my piece of the fabric along with Rozel’s Shadow and Tye’s Silence, because not showing our feelings was more important than successfully completing any prank.

What? To a youngster without the ability to truly understand etiquette, protocol, or social consequence, flatulence is funny.

…it’s still funny, dammit.

I also remember the entire squadron being pulled aside, afterwards…and the Lord Patriarch claiming the right to determine what our punishment was to be.

“I accept your terms, little pup. Your witch may sit and watch me defeat you! Gya ha ha ha ha ha!” King Bulblin’s Hyrulean is remarkably well spoken, and I’m lucky enough to get a veritable forest of spears and clubs putting potholes in my nostalgic trip down memory lane. My demented escort guides me from Link’s side to literally sit in the middle of the fucking street in the fucking rain on the fucking ground, but is too fucking stupid to take any of my weapons aside from my daggers and spear.

Not that I’m going to argue with Stinky, Smelly, or Rancid while they have _their_ weapons at the ready and we’re surrounded on every side by more of the same. Not that much of an idiot, thanks. That kind of idiot put us here all on his own, without even hesitating. I’m not sure there really was a thought process beyond his knee-jerk Pavlovian injustice-response, despite claims of having a plan.

Maybe he forgot that in a fifty to two confrontation – technically fifty-three if my count is accurate – the side with the upper hand in terms of numbers could take hostages.

At least his arm is okay. He’s not moving stiffly, or rubbing it, and the cold and damp of the rain would make it ache if I’d missed a step.

Fuck, do all Bulblins smell like badly made pork jerky and stale sweat, or is it only when they’re damp? Sitting this close to far too many Bulblin butts, I may just cause further diplomatic incident when I end up hurling all over them. Link isn’t happy about my entrapment – haloed in irritated amber sparks – but they’re not hurting anything aside from my olfactory senses as per his demand. Just threatening to do so in a very obvious way. The exact opposite of the Lord Patriarch, though both he and King Bulblin are about as wide as they are tall.

Lord Rauru was as subtle as the well-made water-mark on the official Royal stationary. I assume he still is, if he survived the initial attack on the Palace. I hope he did. He was one of the few people outside of the Royal Family who didn’t care that we were just a bunch of pre-pubescent spooks destined to die in obscurity. He treated us like we were any other children, like our teachers and keepers did, and that made him something like what I assume an idealized grandfather is supposed to be.

I liked him, then. I’d probably still like him now. If he’s alive.

And not just because – instead of a lecture and some kind of physical labor as punishment for the unseemly behavior of an entire squadron of _esclavin_ brats – he taught us how to make a more authentic fart sound with our armpits. The King was flabbergasted…and then came the lecture. Not on inappropriate behavior or public scandals, but on how service to an individual must be tailored to the individual, and not the public perception of that individual.

Eran had been amused as a result of our actions…and reprimanded for them as though he had done it himself. I still can’t think of a more effective punishment, at least among my _konlega_. We – the lot of us, not just one – were for him. His to direct, to encourage, and to deploy as needed.

A dozen of us, to stand by the future King of all Hyrule.

Then there were fewer of us, then fewer still. Then he died, and…and…it was…a blur. Numb except for when it hurt so much that the numbness was a blessing. Hollow and cold except where hot shards cut deep. Then lonely, and quiet, before becoming awful. Then I’m missing large portions of time, and I have to assume it was worse. Then it got a little better. Then worse again. Then different. Then a bearable level of awful that was just good enough on average to keep doing the breathing thing. Mostly.

Then I threw three eggs at a Wizzrobe, because someone had to. Then I met Link, and I’m still not sure what to think of…that. The whole situation. All of it, especially now that the Bond is just _gone_. My entire reason for _existing_, destroyed as though it never was…and yet, I live. I should be dead…but he lives too, and doesn’t seem all that upset about it. I do know – from both logical reasoning and a Bullbo’s weight of evidence – that Link doesn’t need the same type of service that Eran was expected to require…at least, not yet. He’s different. Weird. I still serve Hyrule – both the country and the family – and all of Her peoples, but Link is not Eran.

Link is _not_ Eran.

Well, _shit_. I’ve been a fool, and I wasn’t even trying this time.

Just how much of a fool has yet to be seen, but as the Bulblin King’s mobile court sets up a series of five makeshift archery targets in the freezing rain, I can be less of one. Quickly – before the challenge actually starts and I could therefore be accused of interfering with the outcome – I carefully cast one of the spells _not_ in my recently practiced repertoire. There was no point. Nayru’s Love is longer lasting. Shield is stronger. Daruk’s Protection is like burning down the house to kill a spider. It gets the job done, but the exponential overkill is ridiculously inefficient. When I might need every last strand of magic in the not so distance future, precision in my casting is paramount.

I…get that, now. I’ll do my best not to drain myself to the dregs if I can at all help it. The magic jugs will help, and carrying them with me is another step towards my goal of being less of a fool. I’m not such a fool that I pull one out right now, though, when doing so would declare my intentions as clearly as taking out a classified side-bar ad on HNN’s homepage. Instead, I stay still and quiet, and focus.

Reflect was one of the first defensive spells we learned to cast, because it is meant for inanimate objects – not living, breathing, active people that would prefer to stay that way – in case we fucked up our aether management. Strengthening that object according to its properties. Letting it repel what it ordinarily could not. Mostly, we practiced on shields and armor, though that later turned into some of the simple wards I can put on doors and windows.

Today, I cast it on Link’s bow and bow string so they will repel the water and stay as true as their wielder. It takes me too long, my gestures are too precise, and my weaving is noticed…but I’ve finished my self-appointed task before I’m taken to task for doing it in the first place.

“Witch!” Rancid snarls, and the thick end of his club knocks me flat onto my back, leaving me stunned for half a second…but not hurt. More of a shove than a blow, really. I’ve had much worse, just presuming to be a spook in a public space. Fuck, my ass still hurts the most.

“Hey!” Link barks a protest, but aside from the grit of the damp road, the chill of the rain, and enough existential angst to fuel a generation of indie rock bands, I’m fine.

“I’m okay!” I call, so he doesn’t ruin our chances of surviving this to fuck another day. I’d even let Lady Malon watch, as long as she stuck to DJ-ing her own party. “Just do this, so we can get out of here.” And I can find a bath. Mr. Derorin’s shower was as dirty as the rest of his apartment, and given the state of his restaurant, the Outset Early Riser may have been a mistake.

Fuck, Kaya, if you’re going to be a bile geyser try to aim it somewhere unpleasant for _other_ people to deal with.

“Are you sure?” My _domine _insists, proving my value as insurance against his behavior, the spoon.

“I’d rather be vacationing at Toronbo Resort, if you must know.” Saints and Sages, I’d rather be writing midterms with my continued enrollment dependent upon my test scores and no chance of getting a job after convocation, even though the lack of Forelock’s particular trademarked brand of psychopathy at this point in my life is a distinct plus.

“Heh.” Link grins, and gets all tickled-pink pleased and sunshine bright gleeful as I realize my mistake. “Later, then.” He purrs. “Just the four of us.”

Fucking extra creamy shit and marshmallow sandwiches toasted over an open flame.

…I should see if I can get ahold of Zuta for a locals-only tour. That all-inclusive tourist-trap crap would give me hives _and _indigestion.

“I will not be forsworn.” King Bulblin reprimands Rancid, and cuffs him _way_ harder than he touched me. Hard enough for him to skid across the pavement, bouncing. “The witch is to be unharmed until _after_ I have put this barking whelp in his place.” Hard enough that he doesn’t get up. “Come, dog of a fallen king. Show me your strength!”

He won’t get up again, ever, with a neck twisted around like that…and unlike Corruptions or Remnants, his body stays sprawled in the roadway, rapidly cooling in the rain.

I make the sign of the Holy Triangle to ward off misfortune, and add a silent prayer for his spirit to have a better rebirth in the next life.

Then he puffs into ashen dust like any other monster as the last vestiges of life – of animation – leave.

Oh…_shit_. That…changes things. Changes the plan…not that I really had one either, but now I can _make _one, seeing as my master didn’t feel like sharing anything with me other than his spit while relieving me of some of my weaponry. With Rancid not being a Bulblin at all, but rather a Corruption of a Bulblin, I can _act, _and if there’s _anything_ the Grand Master taught us, it’s to _think_ before we do anything.

I _thought _the Bulblins all looked remarkably alike. I _thought_ it was due to a baker’s dozen generations worth of inbreeding and sumptuary fashion choices. Huh. Shows what you know, Kaya. Stop assuming that just because it looks like a person on the outside that it’s actually a person on the inside. Pay _attention_, dammit. Generalizing and stereotyping doesn’t help anyone. Look _closer_. It’s not murder if it’s a monster, but how many of them are actually monsters?

“Ready!” They may have their spears and clubs ready to bash me at the first sign of more magic, but I don’t need to cast any spells to See. I’ve been true. All my life – all the _fucking shit _that I’ve seen – I’ve been true. Nayru bless.

“Aim!” Link fingers his bowstring with surprise coloring the motion, but doesn’t say anything or even glance in my direction. Stays focused on the targets, and his current competition for our continued survival. Hashtag worth it, hashtag fucking finally. I stop paying attention to the acrimonious burgundies interwoven with the Darkness in King Bulblin’s diadem, and start paying attention to the Bulblin horde surrounding us.

“Fire!” Of the four still waiting to turn me into a spook-kebab, three are…identical. Right down to the tear in their right pant cuff going up exactly sixteen stitches from the hem. The odd one out doesn’t have that tear, but is otherwise the same. Precisely, in everything but their respective geographical locations.

Of the six going to the dampened dust of the one King Bulblin swatted like an insect – as he snorts in irritation that Link’s first shot was closer to the bulls-eye – there are two sets of two, and two individuals. Or two sets of one, rather. One of those picks up the discarded spear, removing the option for opportunistic weaponry I had at my disposal if I could escape without being skewered…but that shows me his right pant leg, and the single tear going sixteen stitches upwards from the hem.

“Ready!” Suddenly, everything’s coming up Kaya. Or maybe that’s just breakfast coming up instead, because that’s fucking _nasty_. “Aim!” They’re _eating_ the Corruption-dust left over from Rancid’s corpse! Just…_fuck_…dipping their fingers in it and scooping it up like a toddler eating mashed potatoes! “Fire!” I...I think I’m going to puke.

Nope. _Nope_. I _am_ going to puke.

The Outset Early Riser doesn’t taste any better for a second sampling, and my retching distracts Link seconds after he fires. It’s a decent shot, but King Bulblin’s is better. I missed the minions entirely with my projectile breakfast.

“Sheik!” He calls, fretting over my reaction to the cannibalistic tendencies of the Corruption Collective instead of his ongoing trial. The one where he’s _literally_ competing for our lives.

“Sorry, I forgot what vomit tasted like.” I choke out, trying to prove I’m okay _without _a thorough examination. “Did you want a sample?” He needs to pay attention to other things right now, the fucking spoon. From the face he pulls, I’ve succeeded in at least keeping him over there.

“You going to be okay?” Concern surges up through his anticipation and determination, occluding his focus.

“I’m _fine. _Breakfast disagreed with me, is all.” It wanted to stay in my stomach and be digested. I wanted to make my opinion of what the Corrupted Bulblins were doing known. All eight…nine…twelve of them. I’d wondered how Corruptions propagated. Now I know.

I…am immensely glad Danpe took care of the Vengas’ dust. At least I hope he did. He took it from me, sure…but I don’t know beyond that.

Just what I needed, one more thing to worry about.

“When I win, I will allow you to say good-bye to your slave, little dog.” King Bulblin growls. “You waste my time.”

“When I win, you will tell me everything I want to know.” Link growls right back. “Score’s even, old boar. Let’s finish this.”

My Bulblin back-up dancers don’t take issue when I slide further away from the oily, sulfurous mess as Link returns to his place next to their King, and I do my best to identify and classify the rabble while wanting nothing more than to brush my teeth. Maybe puke a bit more. _Goddesses_.

“Ready!” The one yelling is unique, though still uglier than the underside of a stray dog shitting on a freshly mowed lawn. “Aim!” The one holding King Bulblin’s Bullbo is also uniquely ugly, his face some sort of amalgamation of the proportions of six other faces which were then hit repeatedly with a board to get them to stick together. “Fire!”

That shot goes to King Bulblin again, though they need to measure to be certain.

“Ready!” I count, and recount to be sure. “Aim!” Double check against patterns and what few reflections I can see from this angle. “Fire!”

Link evens the score.

The group keeping the perimeter are all the same as lacks-the-tear. There’s one target left. I check my tally. Out of the sixty-four Bulblins currently blocking the street – not including the obviously singular King – only four are individuals. _All_ of them bear the Corruption of Demise’s Malice. One I can reach myself, though I’ve run out of time to test if he can bleed, or if that one, too, is an iteration of the Calamity returned.

“Ready!” I’ve still got eleven explosive tags. Link has most of a quiver of arrows and his sword. I have my cantrips, and there are a lot of spears and clubs close by if – by some sort of unforeseen miracle akin to the university suddenly stocking three-ply – I can get my hands on one. The rain interferes with both Urbosa’s Fury and Din’s Fire, but doesn’t render them useless. Mipha’s Grace is also not useless, but doesn’t provide a solution to our problem. The only potentially useful spell I have on hand isn’t a cantrip, and isn’t something that I’m confident using. I’ve only used it once, and only on myself.

“Aim!” Still, it’s my best Goddess-given option. If Link misses, I need to get my timing right for him to survive. Preferably for both of us to survive, but I can do the math, and our odds are definitely skewed against that. Even if Veran – may she be spontaneously generate taste buds on her asshole – hadn’t obliterated our Bond, escape _would_ be impossible…but for the gift the Trials bestowed upon me.

It’s a wrench in the machinations of Demise’s minions they can’t possibly have anticipated, because it’s not Sheikah magic. Or Hylian. No correspondence chart I’ve ever…

…movement, by the apartment complex rubbish, compost, and recycling bins.

“Fire!”

I flick my eyes back to the two archers literally taking their last shot in the freezing spring rain. Link releases his arrow at precisely the same moment as King Bulblin, and just kind of…blurs. Blinking doesn’t clear a wayward rain drop from my eyes, and in that time he’s stuck my explosive tag on the head of another arrow, drawn, and fired.

Direct, point-blank range, right into King Bulblin’s face…or rather, into one of the massive horns holding the helmet bearing the diadem that is a vessel of the Scourge of Malice in place on his head. His first arrow hits the target in the precise center of the bullseye, next to King Bulblin’s. Link can get his answers.

I definitely need recalibration, but he can get his answers.

Not that the King is in a talking mood, anymore. More roaring and enraged, dropping his bow to draw his sword that is to Link’s sword as Link’s sword is to my daggers. Thing probably weighs as much as I do, and the King handles it easily with a single hand, Link’s arrow still embedded in his horn.

“Uh, Sheik?!” Link shouts, dodging the first strike entirely, the massive sword leaving a pothole big enough to kill most cars behind. “Little help?!”

Oh. Right. He probably wants my explosive tag to explode. It’s _my _tag, keyed to _my _signature, effective only in _my_ range. In his hands, it’s just a piece of paper with some squiggles scrawled across it. This is why sharing plans is _important_.

“Sheik!” He hollers again, drawing his own sword. I can yell at him later. Nutting up now.

Letting go of the _saithr_ strands I’ve gathered up in anticipation of running the fuck away means I need to disperse them or explode like he wants my tag to. Not being as calm and focused as I should be – while being held hostage by the minions of a hostile, invading warlord that’s one snort away from rip-shit pissed – means I lose my hold on one of them in the process, and explode a bit anyway.

I can guarantee you that anyone built for as much comfort and as little speed as the King of Bulblins is has broken wind with a lot more force than my little slip up produces, and probably had a couple bearing heavier loads as well. It’s barely enough to kick up some of gravel from the road and whip up my clothes and hair, but that gravel is moving fast enough to cut skin…and it does, drawing blood from the back of one of my remaining captor’s hands. Smelly isn’t a Corruption. Stinky is.

I’m not sure which is more monstrous – the one with the ability to choose or the one without. Not that Smelly had many other options, most likely. With his King overtaken, his community Corrupted, what else could he do? Speaking of which…

Triggering my explosive tag is as simple as flicking on a light switch, and about as complicated. All the hard work has already been done, the energy accounted for. The cracking of horn echoes immediately after the explosion, and is followed closely by a bellowed order.

“Kill the witch!” King Bulblin howls.

My heart seizes, breath freezing in my lungs.

Stinky raises his spear.

Bright yellow barbs bloom in his throat. Fletching. An arrow.

Not one of Link’s. What…

As Smelly goes down with a cry – another sunshine-yellow fletched arrow in his chest – Link leaps…past King Bulblin. Turns. Uses the momentum to slice through the damaged horn.

…where…

Sixteen-stitch tear-free C, D, and F are dust. H was the original, face down and unmoving as a pool of blood spreads beneath him. The diadem glitters with crazed crimson Malice as it falls to the ground, spinning an elliptical evil in degrading circuits until finally coming to a rest.

…_who_?

“Enough!” This cry is very different from the rest, and comes from a throat choked up in sorrow. “That’s enough!”

I can see the change in King Bulblin’s colors, and those three words are enough for my _domine_ to hear it in his voice, because Lord Improvisation sheaths his sword without a qualm and kneels to use my dagger to pry the jewel out of the diadem, crushing it beneath the heel of his boot as he stands.

The rest of the Corrupted Bulblins follow in bursts of ashes and ill intent, leaving Yeller and Six-Times Ugly to put down their weapons and join their King in his grief. My _domine_ strides over and holds out his hand, helping me to my feet.

“Eyes on the archer?” He murmurs softly, cupping my head and pressing it down against his shoulder…but not hard enough to obscure my sight lines over it.

“Negative. Possibly in the apartments, or the parking lot.” I whisper into his _stupid _pointed ear, and bite the lobe. Make it sting. Make him flinch.

“Ow! Damn it, Sheik!” He hisses, arms tensing. Pulling me closer. Close enough I can feel him shaking from the after-battle adrenaline spiking his system into over-drive. “What was that for?”

“Don’t call me that unless you mean it.” I hiss right back, wrapping my arms around him in return. “We’ve been over this. Talk to me. Tell me things.” Crisply enunciating my syllables keeps me from snarling. “Don’t deliberately turn me into a hostage just so you can rescue me and feed your fucking ego, you…you pompous, _arrogant_…fucking heroic _meatlog_!”

He laughs.

He _fucking _laughs!

“Love you, too.” The honest words – and that damn rose glow – wash over my brain like bleach, erasing the stains and brightening the dark spots there. Not the ones moving out from behind the black S.U.V. or food truck with an anthropomorphized pineapple mascot. Or by the dove-grey town car. Or the apartment recycling bin. Those ones get darker still, each with a quiver of yellow-fletched arrows, bows slung over the shoulder…and solidify into another spook, calmly walking towards us.

One with serious training, possibly ex-military. Maybe active military. Dark Doubles require familiarity and training with less than accessible forms of conjury, enchantment, and illusion magic, a great heaping helping of transmutation, and to make even one that is physical enough to fire an arrow means he’s dangerous. Plains Sheikah stock, like Kafei, from the lightly tanned skin and eggplant-purple hair. Eyes nearly as red as mine, but with a tinge of magenta to them.

Vaguely familiar, for some reason, though try as I might I can’t place him or his patterns.

Reaching up to grab Link’s head, I close my eyes and lean in close enough to look like I’m kissing him while burying everything else to dig out later, and whisper. “Archer, on your seven, twelve meters and closing.”

“Just one?” He hums.

“Yeah. Spook as fuck. Well trained.” I tilt my head and glance through my lashes, only able to see him from my right, marked eye, the left taken up entirely by Link’s lightly freckled cheekbone and the corner of his closed eye. Why are his eyes closed? Just because the three remaining Bulblins are gathering their Bullbos and their dead doesn’t mean they aren’t still an active threat. One that needs to be _monitored_.

“Okay.” He sighs, and closes the half centimeter gap between our lips. Keeps it pretty chaste, considering. Smart, since I’m still mad at him and am still willing to bite. His mouth is…gentle. So very soft.

Stuff it _down_, Kaya. Swoon later. Deal with the _deja-_spook now….or the Bulblins. Either would be good. Stop it with the…really…nice…kissing.

Goddesses he smells…acceptable. Feels better than good. Warm. You’re mad at him, remember? Stop it.

Aaaaaaany time now.

Um. Yeah. No tongue. You just made a sidewalk pizza out of breakfast, and he doesn’t need to sample that even though you offered. He needs to pick a threat and commit, so you can deal with the other one.

“We have seen your strength, Knight of Hyrule.” King Bulblin projects over the snorting of his mount and the steady patter of spring rain, making Link turn. I guess that means he’s got the Bulblins, so I get the spook. “We follow the one with power, who has claimed this country as his own. It is at his behest that We search for the True Queen, that he may legitimize his rule in the name of the One God.”

“What.” Flat and ferocious, the amber sparks turn to arcs and flares that tell me it’s not a question that Link wants an answer to, but a challenge daring the dead eyed, one-horned, fatty, fugly, piggy monarch to repeat himself.

“Having suffered defeat, We shall withdraw to Our lands.” He continues, either oblivious to my master’s anger or unable to understand more than strictly literal forms of speech. He’s…beaten, but not frightened, honest and honorable about it, and follows word with deed immediately. Within seconds, they’ve turned tail and run off, the switchback streets of Old Castletown ensuring I lose sight of them quickly. Leaving only one active threat to my _domine_’s safety. One is much easier to deal with than sixty-plus, especially when there are two of us and there’s more than one person here with the training needed to make more than one Double.

Fuck if I can remember _how_, but if I remembered the order of weaving I know that I _could._ I do remember more important patterns, and can conjure my intent in a few heart-beats.

Spreading my hands wide, palms flat for a measurement of the periphery, I call on Strength and Stone and Din of the Flaming Arms, adding the desire to protect to hold it all together and set the intention. Push it through my converter, straining for the appropriate tension. Hold the density – drawn from the ambient aether and manifested in my own _saithr_ strands – in my palms. Mold the shape of it in my fingers. Knot the joins to secure the whole. Slam my fists together to activate the spell, and get a sturdy Daruk’s Protection expanding around my master.

The sizzling beam of an active Guardian can’t break through _that_, and so there’s no chance of this _familiar_ spook’s arrows finding their target. Unless they’ve been reinforced, but then we’ve got bigger problems. Casting another Protection for me, I stack the weaker Nayru’s Love over it, and wish that I could fucking figure out where I’m shitting the bed on the damn binding Rune between the two spells. It takes longer – and costs more magic – casting them separately. Magic that could go into restorative or offensive spells instead.

The stranger hasn’t moved since releasing his Dark Doubles, and tilts his head in response to my brisk casting as Link growls in frustration over King Bulblin’s rapid retreat, our inability to pursue, and lack of satisfactory answers. Most of it disappears when he faces our unknown company, but not all.

“What in the Dark Realm was that supposed to mean?” He snarls under his breath, mostly likely to himself. Plasters a faint – genuine – smile on his face. Relaxes his shoulders. Lifts a hand in greeting. “Hey, Regan.”

“Lord Korokshire.” The tall spook in jeans and a leather bomber jacket raises a hand as well. “That was some impressive shooting.”

“I could say the same.” My _domine _nods. “Thanks for the help.”

“It is all my pleasure to assist you.” Now that he’s closer, I can see he wears his hair done up in the same kind of simple knot I used to wear, which means he’s either off duty or in training. Given his age, probably off duty. That doesn’t make me trust him…quite the opposite in fact, given my history with law enforcement. “Both of you.” He stares at me, making my hackles rise.

“Come, we’ve got some food.” Link offers as he strides towards the other man. “We can talk over lunch.” He offers. Classic Link. Does he feed everyone he meets as a matter of course?

“Link?” I don’t like being so far out of the loop that I can’t tie anything together. How does he know this man? More importantly, why do I feel like I do, too? He’s so tall, and I don’t personally know _any_ Sheikah over a hundred and eighty-three centimeters.

“What?” This time it is a question, born of dawning confusion.

“Who is he? Can we trust him?” I whisper, and it’s his turn to stare at me, too. I’m not expecting him to take my hand and march me over to the stranger.

“I thought you knew each other, but I guess I was wrong.” He apologizes. “Sheik, this is Regan, a palace guard. I’m sorry, but I don’t know your family name.”

“Deya.”

Oh…sweet Nayru.

“Regan Deya, this is Kaya Lurelin, my Sheik.” Link says, and my good friend Freeze from the Panic Attack Trio roots me in place, staring up at Regan. _Regan_. The older of the twins. Is Yeran as tall? Is Yeran still alive? They disappeared at the same time from the Training Hall. No one would tell us why.

“You got big.” I whisper, my heart trying to pound its way out of my chest and my lungs doing their best to get the assist.

“_Du tenair belva svelte,_ Kaya.” He puns at me. Puns! No fucking wonder he and Link know each other. It’s a Goddess damned conspiracy to drive out what little sanity I have left.

“That was weak.” I criticize – keeping my tone and face as deadpan as I can manage to try and regain control over myself since I’ve got none over anything else and the universe has an absolutely _fucked up_ sense of humor – and it was. Weak as my knees. Fuck.

_Regan._

“Guess I’ll have to try harder. If you give me seven days, I’ll show you _week_.” He grins at me, and I find the strength to bury my face in my hands again and moan.

“No, no more puns.” I beg. If I focus on the horrible linguistic humor I can at least not break down in the middle of the damn road. It’s _Regan_.

“More puns?” Link perks up, interested.

Maybe suffocating in my own palms isn’t so bad after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thanks to the Discord for Snipers Solve 99% of All Problems by silentwalrus here on AO3 (go read! it's great! FMA/HP crossover) I have come across the idea of a running tally for the use of the word "fuck". A fuck count, if you will...and it's genius, though I forget who started it.
> 
> Needless to say, I immediately started one for The Calamity is Calling.
> 
> Of Cake and Calamity: 369 total fucks, of which Sheik is responsible for 343, Link is responsible for 0.  
Crumbs has 59: Sheik is responsible for 36 of those, Link for 3.  
Unleavened, as of this chapter, has 321: Link says it once, Sheik is behind the rest (damn, boi).
> 
> Also yes all those "throwaway" mentions of characters up until now? Angst fuel. Not that I'm going to burn down the block, but...just a little fire. Untended. As a treat.


	22. Picking Up the Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sheik is holding it together by a thread.  
Link is an oblivious idiot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Canon Typical Violence, Pain  
CW: Joke explanation (because it's always funnier when you have to explain why it's funny), use of fantasy language (meaning should be evident from usage/intentionally confusing for plot reasons), Puns, Arguments, Leaps of Logic
> 
> FC: +2, both courtesy of everyone's favorite foul mouthed funny guy
> 
> This Chapter picks up a few minutes after the end of Chapter 21, to avoid unnecessary idle chatter and boring stuff. All the chatter and boring stuff that remains has been deemed necessary by order of me.

“…means both slender, and quick.” Regan explains with a grin as my Sheik kneels to gather as many of the leftover shards from the shattered stone as he can, looping the bent circlet around his wrist and putting King Bulblin’s horn through his belt to carry with us like some kind of grim trophy. “I thought it was apt.”

“It’s a fucking pun! A fucking _multilingual_ pun! A _bad_ pun! I…you…it’s been sixteen _years_ since I last saw you, Regan! And then you _dare _to, to…” Kaya complains, cutting himself off and gritting his teeth to keep from saying more. It’s only a few paces for him to scoop up my bow as he returns to my side – discarded when I needed to draw my sword – and I find it more difficult than it should be to reclaim my weapon instead of his waist as he hands it to me. “…you _used_ to be cute.”

“You used to be fun, so I guess we’re even.” Regan shrugs. “Although, I have to say…_damn_, Kaya. You were always a pretty kid, but…holy _Hylia_, man. Yeran’s going to turn stupid when he sees you, especially with that tattoo. I mean, you just barfed, and I’m not into guys to begin with, but I _have_ lived my life, you know? And you’re not just _svelte_…you’re _beautiful_.” He gushes, but it’s definitely the wrong thing to say, since Sheik goes pale and rigid, shutting down entirely. Leaving me to deal with his…I suppose childhood friend would be as close as I can really get. One whom I’m not entirely certain is friendly, and has casually mentioned allies while implying that they’re close by.

I’m also not entirely certain if that was meant to be a reassurance, or a threat.

But…I _want_ – desperately – to believe that he’s friendly. That the other guards from the palace are among those that helped Tetra escape, and not those that _had_ to be part of it all. That he’s someone I can trust even now. He helped us, but…in my heart of hearts, I know there _had _to be people on the inside for an attack on the Royal Family to be effective that most of the palace staff was unaware it was happening until after it happened. As Tetra ran for her life.

As her parents lost theirs.

There simply _had_ to be insiders involved…_if _Regan’s telling the truth. _If_ what I heard over Kaya’s shoulder in the Gossip is true. I don’t actually know anything about what happened in the castle that day, or where Tetra is now. I don’t know who I can trust, and the one person who’s supposed to advise me on that is too busy intently wiping his hands on his pants and staring at the ground to respond. Sheik can’t lie, but does the same hold true for Regan? I don’t know, and the uncertainty feels like failure.

I…should get us back on track. Move forward. Keep going, because standing here isn’t getting me any closer to where I want to be.

“Seriously though…” I interrupt their exchange of micro-expressions and silence to pull his attention off Sheik and onto me again. I’m used to being stared at. At having every action scrutinized and critiqued. It’s why I hate tabloids, and the paparazzi they encourage and employ. “…we’ve got food if you know somewhere dry we could go and talk.” Sharing food builds trust. Mom was right about that. Knowing that the food is safe to eat – because it’s from a trusted source – helps. Malon was right about that. Letting the other person pick the venue gives them a sense of control over the situation. Tetra was right about that.

Goddess, I miss them. All of them. So much.

Mom’s gone. Malon’s so far away. Tetra…Tetra’s close enough that I could find her _today_. Within the _hour_, if Sheik would just snap out of it and tell me where she is. Even just _pointing_ me at the right building would be enough. And then, when I know everyone I love is safe, we can…

“Um, yeah. I got a place we can go, but…” Regan hesitates. “…it’s not exactly the kind of accommodations you’re used to, Lord Korokshire.”

“Link, please. I’ve been sleeping in a tent most nights for the last week, Regan.” I sigh, just wanting to be dry and warm while I eat and – if I can’t be with my fiancée – maybe curl up for a bit of a cuddle with Sheik, after. I’m _tired_, and need it. Just a little cuddle, no matter how one sided it ends up being. I don’t have the patience or energy to be comforting right now, and Regan’s commentary has taken any chance of intimacy with him off the table without a good deal of soothing. “We walked here from Korokshire Manor, so simply being out of the elements would be nice.”

“You walk…uh. Wow. Okay then, um…follow me?” He blinks in surprise, glancing at my Sheik who is still not looking at anyone directly, pale and tense and quiet. More than usual, that is. Moving stiffly. I should apologize to him, later…and make absolutely certain he really isn’t hurt and only registering it now. Once we’re somewhere safe.

“Our bikes are back over by the blue and white apartment block. Our supplies are on them.” I wave, and then lead the way. It’s not a long walk to recover our things from where we left the pile before the confrontation, or to the seven story apartment block that Regan leads us to afterward. The Marigold. Clambering up the fire escape – all the way to the garden on the roof – means we have to leave the bikes on ground. Taking the seats and front wheels with us at Sheik’s insistence means an extra trip that has me breathing hard by the end of it.

Regan’s accommodations are a large gardening shed that he’s obviously been living in for the last few days, but tidily. It’s cleaner than the apartment we spent last night in, and dry, and has a small magic activated space-heater glowing with a soft blue light that means it’s noticeably warmer inside than it is outside. I sluff my backpack, bow, and bike tire off, turning to help Sheik with his so we don’t knock anything over or bump into each other, only to find him frozen between the box planters labelled tomatoes and green beans. Heart pounding, breaths coming fast and shallow.

“Come on in, there’s not a lot of space, but we’ll fit.” Regan waves, and Sheik takes a step back, breaking his stillness.

“I’ll seal the perimeter.” He says, shaking his head, and I’m surprised by the amount of revulsion and shame in his tone. “You go ahead.”

“There’s chalk in the blue plastic tub…” Regan also does the chin-pointing thing. “…and I’ve got spray paint in here if you’re up for something a little more permanent.”

“You didn’t put up wards?” Disbelief and scorn turn Sheik’s voice into something a little more lifelike.

“Chalked, but the rain’s washed most of them away.” Regan shrugs. “I wasn’t planning on staying here this long, though apparently we’ll be here a while longer. I’d appreciate the help, if you don’t mind. You were always the better at them, and have what, seven months more training that we got?”

“Almost eight months, or nearly four years, depending on how you look at it. Aetherial Formulaic Defense Major at the Uni.”

“Minor?”

“Healing Runes.”

“And you’re a Sheik now, too, right? Congratulations, man.” Regan shakes his head. “His Highness would’ve been so proud.”

“I…yes.” Dropping his eyes again, I’m pretty sure Sheik shudders, and isn’t shivering because of the weather. “The uh…the spray paint would…be good.”

“One sec.” Brushing past me, Regan ducks into the shed and rummages through an old milk crate, pulling out three canisters. “You need a hand with the rain? I’ve got an umbrella in here somewhere.” He calls back, and I press against the wall to get out of his way and stay on the inside instead of stepping back into the cold, wet drizzle.

“No.” Sheik doesn’t move from between the planters, forcing Regan to go to where he’s standing as still as a statue while his heart pounds way faster than even our repeated climbs up and down the fire escape call for. His hands are steady when they take the canisters, though, one at a time. Tucking two beneath his arm and shaking the third to mix the contents with a rattle I can hear even over the nothing that they’re saying so very, very loudly.

With his hands free and blatantly telegraphing his intent, Regan raises a palm to touch the marked side of Sheik’s face beneath the sodden fringe…and Sheik jumps and tenses even further at the contact. Holds still as Regan’s palm hovers, then slides back to bury itself beneath the wrappings and beads and pull Sheik into a one armed hug. I can hear his breath catch on Regan’s shoulder before he pulls away. Turns away. Goes to the remains of chalked markings on the cement pad and stares at the faded script.

“When you’re ready, we’ll talk, _min ubo’hi konlega._” Regan promises, but leaves Sheik to his self-appointed task and ushers me further into the gardening shed. “Come in, Lord Korokshire. Sorry, Link. Make yourself comfortable, because I want to know everything that’s happened on your end since the Resurgence.”

“I only mean to stop long enough for lunch, and to get directions.” I inform the former – current? – Palace Guard, and sit on the cot since he’s taken the stool. I’ve come _so_ far, and Tetra’s _so_ close. If I can’t go to be by her side ten minutes – hours, days – ago, then I _need_ to know she’s okay. “We can go over all that once I see my fiancée.”

“Well see, now, that poses a bit of a problem.” Regan prevaricates, pulling out a small pot and setting it on the flat top of the space heater. “Seeing as I don’t know where she is right now, and even if I did, I don’t know if you’re a danger to her. I can’t let you go until I know you aren’t, and even then, I’m afraid I can’t allow you to compromise her safety.”

“I’m her _fiancé_!” I protest. Why in the Goddess’ name would I put her in danger?

“And her own sister betrayed her to save herself, my Lord, so forgive me if I feel the need to verify that you haven’t done the same, or haven’t been _followed_ by those who would do her harm.” Regan shrugs. “Do you like cucco noodle or mixed vegetable soup better?”

“What?” Hilda what? “I’ve…got food, but, what…” Hilda _what_? _Hilda?_

“And are willing to share it, and are obviously with Kaya, which is why I didn’t shoot you as well as the Bulblins and take care of two problems at once. But it’s raining out, and nothing warms a body up like a good bowl of soup.” Regan insists, holding up two cans. “Now, do you want cucco noodle or mixed vegetable?”

Is he _serious_?

“I…is she okay, at least?” I beg, the hollow feeling in my gut expanding. “I need to know.” How many of my nightmares are real?

“Depends on your definition of okay, and which soup you want.” Regan shrugs, but there’s some hesitancy in his syllables.

“I don’t care about _soup_.” I growl, pressing. “I care about _Tetra_. I _need_ to know she’s _okay_, Regan!”

“I heard you the first time, _Lord Korokshire._” Regan growls back at me, frowning as he shoves both cans into my chest. Numb, I watch them tumble, listen to them hit the cement. “And what do you _think_? Have you _seen_ the skies? Talked _with_ Kaya, at all? _Do_ you think, or are you simply the well-bred and perfectly compliant arm-candy you appear to be?”

“I…” I stutter, shocked at the sudden anger and string of accusations. “I…” Is that what he thinks of me? Is that what _all_ the guards think of me? Of Tetra? Of _us_? I’ve been coming to the palace to visit her for _years_. _Decades_. Not _once,_ in all those years, did I…question anything or step out of line. I…was just behaving like I was _supposed_ to. Like my father said a man should, after I threw a fit on national television over being called “my Lord” instead of by my name, before I understood that it was just a sign of respect.

Respect that was completely unearned, given simply due to the family in which I happened to be born. I’ve _tried_ to live up to that. To the responsibility. Tried to be open and honest and a good leader as well as a good master, a good _Earl_, but…have I ever given him…them…_anyone_ any concrete reason to think any differently?

“I…” Closing my eyes, I bow my head and have to acknowledge that, no, I haven’t. Not in any way he would be affected. If he doesn’t have a Chirping account, or doesn’t follow me, he may not even know what I’ve posted about. Just posted, though. It’s all been talk, and shifting the balance onto other people. Even alerting the Chirping admins about the accounts posting hate speech…I personally didn’t do a damn thing. And what I _have_ done _outside_ of social media…I have no proof.

I’ve never mentioned all the times I’ve paid bail for someone at Renado’s behest, never bragged about filling parking meters or finding jobs or making charitable donations. I haven’t said a word over my hiring policies. Not a peep about accessing training and schooling. All the time and money I’ve donated over the years has been deliberately anonymous, because it’s not about _me_. It’s about the charities and the causes, helping the people that just need a little help, and doing what’s right. Not about popularity. If I _had_ said anything, then the focus across media platforms would change from the cause to the contributor, which is exactly what I _didn’t_ want to happen.

Now, I can’t even point those instances out in my defense without risking the very people that requested or benefit from my anonymity. It may just be my reputation, and not my character he’s judging, but it’s still harsh. It still _hurts_. The hollow feeling grows further. Spreads. It’s cold, or maybe that’s just my wet clothes. I shiver. “I’m sorry, Regan.” He’s just doing his job. Loyal to the Royal Family, to _Tetra_, even now. I never should have doubted him. “Mixed vegetable sounds great.”

“Perfect.” He bends to pick up the can, and straightens his spine. “Now, tell me what you know. Prove to me that you’re more than just a handsome face with unobjectionable policies, and I won’t subject you to my cooking again.” Cracking open the can with a sharp pop, adding another can filled with water from his Silver Scale, Regan sits back far enough for me to realize he’d been looming. Intimidating me – or trying to – with his presence.

I’ve been sleeping with Sheik for three and a half weeks, and even though he’s smaller than Regan is, he’s just as…_spooky_…if not more so. Regan isn’t scary to me. None of this is scary to me. Stressful, yes, and frustrating, with a good dose of worry for the people I care about and a driving sense of urgency, but not scary. Not now. Now, I’m too tired to be scared. Now, I just want – _need_ – to see Tetra. Hear her voice. That’s all I’ve wanted from the moment I realized I couldn’t.

To see her, there’s just one more task I have to complete, one more trial to weather, and I’ll be done. Only a little bit more. Only a little bit further. Only a little bit longer. I have to endure…and prove myself to Regan’s satisfaction.

So I talk. Tell my fiancée’s gatekeeper about waking up to Sheik’s horror-filled moan and a bleeding sky filled with embers and ash. Of why I made my decision to travel from Korokshire to Castletown on foot. How I chose only one other person to come with me, and why, and at that point the soup has come to a rapid boil for a good five minutes so we pause to fill a mug and the can with a portion each. He leans back to sip at the broth and take an occasional bite as I describe the journey across Korokshire’s wildlands, asking specific questions about the Deku-Babas and the Koroks, and is awed by my recounting of the interaction with Hestu.

He grimaces, and I can feel myself frowning as I tell him of the incident at the Towne farm. He waits as I stand, needing to pause in my account to stick my head out the door and check on Sheik.

The latest addition to my list of important people has been far too withdrawn all day today for my liking. He’s been steadily losing weight since we left home, listless since leaving Mr. Derorin’s, short tempered since meeting Regan, and I don’t – yet – know how to help. If I even can.

The clatter of the paint can and hiss of spraying paint has been interspersed with strange whooshes, and I can immediately understand why. He’s drying the area, painting more of those perfectly round circles, bold strokes, and squiggly lines, and then baking the paint onto the cement before moving to the next section with a steady, methodological purpose, and I leave him to it. Alone on a rooftop with the area clear of monsters, he’s safe enough working on the same kind of wards that kept our camp sites secure the entire way here.

“How’s he doing?” Regan murmurs as I close the door again against the chill and return to my place by the heater. I’m not sure how to interpret the question, though years of dealing with reporters prying into my personal affairs has made me reluctant to opt for the more individual or theoretical sides, so I take the blatant, obvious one.

“About halfway done, I think.” The warmth of the soup was a good start, but I’m still hungry, and I did promise to share some of our supplies with Regan as both thanks for his help and as a means to get some sort of information on what has been going on. Anything to know what my first and longest love has gone through. Anything at all.

Digging through my pack, I put a selection of meals out on the cot for Regan to choose from, and come across a packet of instant oatmeal in the process. Sheik…would like that, I think, and finding it makes me smile. I set that aside, and wave to the six different options I have available.

“Go ahead and pick whichev….” I start, and the cacophony of the regular sounds of downtown returns. The buzz of electricity, the whoosh of plumbing, the roar of ventilation systems, and over a hundred car alarms makes Regan wince and drops me to my knees, my vision swimming, head throbbing, stomach churning. I…knew the ambient sounds of the city were loud. Just not _this_ loud. Clamping my hands over my ears helps, and protects my head as the incandescent bulb in the overhead light shatters, raining sparks and glass all over the shed. Including into the last of the soup.

“Hold still, my Lord.” Regan murmurs, and gets a broom from the rack on the wall. By the time he’s finished sweeping the shed clear of debris, most of the alarms have been turned off, and I can hear people talking. Moving…and the howling of the sky has vanished, though it still doesn’t sound quite right.

I’ve probably just gotten used to the echoes and undertones of the last few days rushing below my absolute threshold, because as soon as I focus on trying to pick out what’s bothering me, it disappears, and I can’t find it again.

The paint can rattles. Hisses. Stops. Regan picks a shard of glass as long as my pinkie finger from the hood of my jacket. The hiss of spraying paint gives a short burst, and Sheik’s soft footfalls and muted harmonic chords approach the door even as the soup is strained, the chucks discarded, and fluid poured out.

“Another portion of the Champions’ Barrier has been restored, and the blood and ash from our fight with the Bulblins has been washed away with the rain.” Sheik reports, his voice tremulous and breath coming fast. “I…we can – if you’re rested that is – continue on.”

“How’re the wards?” Regan asks, before I can gather up my pack and stand, eager to reach the end of this entire messy adventure.

“Seventy-five percent, there’s still the North to finish.” Sheik says, and Regan’s hand lands on my shoulder, pressing to keep me still, but not hard enough to force me to be.

“Finish them, and then come in and have something to eat. We’re not done talking, either.” He says, pursing his lips.

“Yes, sir.” Sheik replies, and Regan sucks in a breath. Sheik doesn’t hear it – already moving to perform the task – but I do, and see the hand Regan brings up to cover his eyes, the fingers on my shoulder softening before falling away entirely.

He rubs his face and sighs. I sit back on the cot, picking out a hearty beef stew pack from the lot, and tear open along the dotted line to trigger the Runes that will heat it up. The sooner I eat, the sooner Regan will, and the sooner I can finish my story, cram something down Sheik’s throat, find out where Tetra is, and we can go.

The apartment building we’re on top of has a different idea only five bites in. No sooner has Regan picked up the mushroom chicken pack than the three remaining car alarms are joined by another, louder, more insistent blaring. And ringing. Right next to my already aching head, making my eyes cross and my skull feel fit to burst. I have no idea what he says, but the tugging is pretty clear, as are the flashing red light by the building entrance and the vibrating bell labelled with a bright red and white “FIRE” sign.

Before I can find Sheik, a second alarm starts up close by, then a third far enough away that the ringing isn’t painful, just annoying. I have no idea if there actually is a fire, or if the systems are just bugged from restarting after a week without power, but I’m not willing to risk it. Rounding the shed, I nearly run into Sheik as he slides around the same corner on the rain slicked pavement, and I steady us both.

“Go, go!” Regan says, his words sounding hollow and distant, his bow and quiver in place as he hands me my sword and shield and Sheik grabs my bow and quiver. I…would have normally gone for the food first, weapons second, but after a moment’s thought I understand. Monsters are everywhere, and weapons are more difficult to replace. I do take the time to zip up my jacket and tug my hood over my cap, but that’s it.

I’ve been in enough fire drills in my life to move calmly and quickly towards the nearest exit, and we aren’t the only ones using the fire escape to get down this time. There’s a good dozen people already on the steep metal stairs, and they’re joined by three more shortly, at least until Regan decides to use one of the support posts like a fire fighter’s pole and slide to the ground directly.

With Sheik close on my heels and my sword and shield on my back, we waste no time descending the first two flights of stairs before I hear something beneath the screaming sirens and blaring alarms. Voices, two of them, where there shouldn’t be any.

“Come on, Azu! We can come back later, I promise, but we need to go outside now.” A young woman says, three doors down the hall from the fire escape on the fourth floor.

“But what if they come when we’re gone?” A child cries from inside the apartment, treble clear and tremulous.

“Link?” Sheik asks, stalled on the step above me. The hollows in his face and shadows beneath his eyes have returned, and confusion fights with exhaustion for first place in his tone.

“Go ahead without me, there’s something I have to check.” I tell him, and duck into the apartment though the open emergency exit door.

“Link! What…oh by the Dark God’s giant burning ballsack! Link!” He shouts, and I can hear his footsteps change as he follows me into the building. “What are you doing?!”

“Azu!” The woman pleads as she steps into the hall. Slender and young and mostly Hylian features but Human-round ears. “You’re too big for me to carry!”

“Oh.” Sheik realizes as he catches sight of her as well, and falls into step behind me.

“Having some trouble, miss?” I ask when I’m still a doorway away, not wanting to startle her. She glances up at me and freezes as her heart skips a beat. Smiling to stay as non-threatening as a stranger in her home can be with a sword and shield strapped to my back, I take another few steps forward and the child I heard inside screeches.

Not with fear, but delight.

“Iveeeeee! It’s him! Look, look, look! It’s him! It’s him!” Wide-eyed, the boy careens into his relative’s legs, bouncing in place in excitement. The young lady doesn’t seem to notice his antics, too busy staring.

“Hi there, buddy!” I grin, and wave, and am completely ignored by everyone except my Sheik, who’s stopped a full pace behind and to my right.

“It’s him! He throwed the eggs at the bad guy! I saw him!” The boy chatters excitedly, tugging at her skirt. “Ivee!”

“H-hello, Lord Korokshire.” Ivee curtsies, blushing, so at least someone is reacting the way I expected. Technically Sheik is, too, though his time around the kids back home has helped. He’s only _mostly_ awkward, but no longer as stiff as a board or hesitant about doing what needs to be done.

We need to get them moving and get out ourselves, even if this is just a drill.

“Hey, Ivee.” He smiles – and Good Lady is it forced – before crouching down to the boy’s level. “Hi Azu. You were at the Savingsway, huh? With your mom?” He glances at the young woman for confirmation, but the boy corrects him before she can do more than twitch.

“My dad! He was going to make his super yummy egg pudding!”

“You remember the bad guy there?” Sheik asks, gaze returning to the kid and I contemplate just picking him up and running…because I smell smoke.

“Uh-huh! He went bouncy-bouncy-bouncy and was setting things on _fire_!” The sheer enthusiasm he has for an open flame reminds me of being six myself, when I’m sure every single one of us was a little bit of a pyromaniac.

“What did people do?” Patient in a way I can’t even dream of being, my Sheik tilts his head, entirely serious, to ask the question.

“Runned away. But you didn’t! You throwed eggs an’ did magic and stopped the bad guy!” Azu cheers. “You’re a hero!”

I have to agree, but Sheik is frowning.

“I’m no hero.” He denies, shaking his head, his bound braid slithering along the floor with a faint fabric rustle. “I just did what I could, and right now, I want you to do something for me that’s just as important.”

“_Really?_” The boy gasps, pleased into immobility. I think it’s the first time he’s stopped fidgeting since I first saw him.

“Really, really.” Sheik nods. “Will you do it?”

“I can!” Azu crows. “I’ll do it, and show Sefaro that I can be a hero, too!” The young woman - who I hope is a sister rather than his mother as Sheik’s glance seemed to imply – smiles faintly.

“I believe you can.” Sheik nods. “I would like you to take Ivee’s hand, and go down the fire escape, all the way to the ground. She won’t do it without you.”

“But what if mum and dad come back while we’re gone?” He protests, remarkably focused for someone so young, and confirming to that Ivee is _not_ his mother, much to my relief.

"Lord Korokshire and I are taking the stairs. If we see them, we’ll tell them where you went.”

“We can go to the park, and play on the slide for a bit.” Ivee nods, though I’m pretty sure she can smell the smoke, too. “But the fire escape is wobbly, and I need your help to get down safe.”

I’ve never seen someone deliberately lie in front of Sheik before. He flinches as if he’s been slapped, looking even more haggard.

“Can you do that, Azu?” He asks, still wincing.

“I…yeah. Yeah! I can.” The boy nods.

“Quickly, then.” The light touch on the boy’s shoulder sings as he’s engulfed by the now familiar harmonic belling of Nayru’s Love.

“Lord Korokshire?” Ivee asks, still staring at me.

“Go.” I nod.

“Come on, Ivee! It’s not scary!” Encouraging, Azu grabs her hand and starts tugging. She grabs a set of keys from the hook and lets him feel like he’s pulling her, the door closing and locking behind them. They disappear in seconds, and I feel…warm.

Sheik uncorks a magic jug and downs the contents without flinching, then tosses me a red potion.

"Don’t use it unless I’m incapacitated.” He cautions. “But…keep it ready, just in case.”

“What do you see? I smell smoke.” I admit, and he bites his lip before answering me with a question of his own.

“How much theory do you want on progressive thaumaturgic architecture and how the stratified congruence of aetherial manifestation can be subsumed to conscious manipulation?” He asks.

“I considered falling asleep while you were talking, it’s that boring.” I dead-pan, then grin as he groans.

“Meathead.” The accusation isn’t as stinging as the majority of the things that come from his mouth, and I take no offense at the warmth in his tone or humor in his smile, only grinning wider when he stands.

The grin falls the moment I realize he’s not following the siblings, but heading towards the inside of the building.

“Sheik?”

“Bad guy. This way. Come smash, Hero.” He grunts in short sentences and mostly monosyllabic words.

“_Duar domine isa_…” Regan gasps out, making me jump in the air and reach for my sword as Sheik flattens himself against the wall with a yelp.

“Don’t do that!” I protest, heart in my throat, and am ignored the second time in as many minutes as Regan grabs Sheik by the shoulders and holds him where he’s pressed himself against the wall.

“Kaya, _duar domine isa ta svaerding?!_” He chokes out. Talking about me, because I haven’t forgotten what few words I do know in that damn language.

“_Ya._” That’s an agreement, and Regan is shoved away. “He is, and we’ve got a monster to kill, so if you’re finished hindering us, you can go.” Sheik growls, his eyes dark and expression flat.

“_Hindering_ you? I _helped_ you!” Regan snarls back.

“And I appreciate that, but there was a plan before you showed up.” Sheik grits out, gaining volume. Aggression. “You _know_ the consequences should we – should _he_ – fail, and yet you _still_ won’t tell us what we need to know!”

“Whoa, guys…” I try to interrupt their argument to no avail.

“And I’m not going to, not while _that_ is listening!” Regan squeaks, letting Sheik go to draw an arrow as they both focus on something I can’t see…but I can hear it. Giggling.

Not like the laughter of the Corrupted Revenant – childlike and innocent and utterly _wrong _– but just as insane, and just as violent. Footsteps with a particularly rhythmic chiming cadence, like a dance. I spent a good hour reviewing the tapes, both on the drive over to the station and in class the next day after Renado called me about someone needing bail for a crime they didn’t commit and hadn’t – yet – been charged for. I know exactly what it is the moment it appears.

A Wizzrobe.

The scent of smoke thickens.

It raises its wand.

The surging glissando of Sheik’s magic has me holding my breath as the hallway fills with water in a distinct pop, amplifying the Wizzrobe’s death shriek while at the same time distorting it. Three heart-stopping seconds later he lets the spell go, and the Wizzrobe’s wand clatters against the floor.

“Theory proven.” He sighs as Regan coughs up a lung. “How many more fire alarms are there, Link?”

“Uh…” I have to listen hard to distinguish the different tones, my head still aching. “Two, I think. I’m pretty sure the rest are car and security alarms.”

“Where?” Regan chokes, even as Sheik heads towards the other set of stairs by the elevator further down the hall, leaving us to scramble after him.

“West, and north-west.” The continual blaring is starting to make me dizzy, but not so dizzy I can’t catch up to him on the landing of the third floor, grabbing him by the wrist so we can talk. “The other alarms are to the west and north-west. More Wizzrobes?”

“Maybe.” He shrugs, tugging himself free from my hand and glancing in Regan’s direction. “Won’t know for sure until we get there.”

“I can take the western one, pretty sure it’s Meadow Gardens Tower.” Regan offers.

“We’ll clear this place, then head north-west.” Sheik nods. “Regroup?”

“Seventh Heroine.” Regan offers, and I adjust my mental map to place the soup kitchen with where we’ve come in to the city core. Fourteen blocks, give or take an alleyway. That’s awfully far away to meet up again.

“Heard.” Sheik agrees to it, though, and they both turn and go. Regan back out the fire escape, Sheik towards the stairs. I hesitate.

Do I go with Regan, who knows where Tetra is and might need my help? Or do I follow Sheik, who doesn’t know _specifically _where she is but has some way of tracking her and can clearly handle himself? Regan’s a Royal Guard. This is what he does, professionally…and he deferred to Sheik when it came to the monsters and wards and that means Sheik will take care of it. He’s proven he can take Wizzrobes easily. He doesn’t need my help. Neither of them do.

Do I just head towards the Seventh Heroine directly? 

Out of all the places for Regan to suggest, why there? Why, unless that’s where Tetra is?

She’s _so close_.

It’s not so much a decision as realizing my feet have taken me through the milling crowd across the parking lot from the Marigold apartments, and I can’t find any trace of either of the two Sheikah from there. Can’t see through the people. Can’t hear beneath the alarms. With Regan’s little disappearing trick, that doesn’t really surprise me about him, and with how mad Sheik was with me after the confrontation with King Bulblin, I’m not really surprised about him, either.

My ear still stings where he bit me.

The Bulblins are gone. The Champion’s Barrier is restored. This area should be as safe as it was before everything went wrong. He doesn’t need me. Neither of them do. Tetra does. I need her, too.

I start jogging.

It’s only fourteen blocks away. _She_’_s_ only fourteen blocks away. 

I’ll go to her. Where my heart lies, waiting.

_Tetra._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Link.  
Link, yes...  
but...  
Link, no.  
Stahp.  
Staaaaaahp.


	23. Reduction Potential

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Link has officially fucked off without a word.  
Sheik doesn't take it very well.
> 
> FC+38 all courtesy of Sheik

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS – PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE don't skip reading these. This chapter is _harsh_  
Self-hate. Self-harm/Torture. Suicidal thoughts. Failed suicide attempt. Mechanical Body Failure. Anxiety. Panic. Depression.  
Content Warnings - Negative self-talk, grief, exhaustion, dissociation, hunger, emesis, overt racism, violence, hyper-focus as a distraction, references to xenophobia and survival sex work.
> 
> The potentially triggering content begins immediately, so to skip that, please scroll down around 1/3 of the way until you see the =/=, and start reading again afterward.
> 
> That said...uh...enjoy?

Lock. It. Down.

Goddess _damn it_, Kaya, you _useless_ spook. You had _one_ fucking job. _One_ job, your _entire fucking life_, and you _still _can’t fucking _get it right_. Twenty-four years. One. Fucking. Job.

It’s not to be a hero. That’s _his_ job. Not yours. You’re supposed to…

…to…

…except that’s wrong. You’re wrong. Your thoughts, your assumptions, your fucking…everything. Just…_everything_. Veran Saw it, and saved him the trouble you were bound to bring into his life through your _miserable_ existence. Even fucking _Corrupted_ by the eternal _Malice _of _Demise_, she Saw it, where you were too _fucking_ blind.

No amount of rain can wash away that shame.

I don’t even know when I lost him. Sometime between the Fire Wizzrobe and the Flame Dancer. Less than a block. In less than six minutes. Less than twenty minutes ago. Sure, I saved the buildings – the alarms allowing the people in them to save themselves – but I may have doomed all of Hyrule in the process.

One _fucking _job, one_ singular_ purpose, and I’ve failed with _both_ of the Goddess-given opportunities I’ve been given to try.

_Useless._

I can’t see him _anywhere_ from up here, even though everyone in the streets is slowly returning home now that the danger has passed and the alarms have been reset. Returning to normal. The way things should be. Except for one tiny, insignificant detail. Me.

There’s no Linebeck to put me in my place this time. No Sir Bolson to assign an already over-burdened family of strangers my keeping. No Rusl to cut me down and keep me from slowly drowning in my own blood. No Grant – Goddesses, _Grant_ – to drag me to Temple so I could be with people that looked _just like_ me instead of looked _down_ _on_ me. No Link to bail me out and give me some fucking hope…obscuring the truth, because I…I didn’t want to see it. Too stubborn for my own good.

_Useless little **fuck**_.

It’s not like I didn’t know from the moment I woke up in the hospital with Eran’s Bond open and broken and bleeding. Alone, no matter how I tried to reach out. Alone, over something that I couldn’t help being. Alone, by design. Actively excluded. Continuously unwanted. Always, _always_ not quite good enough. Set apart from my own people by my past, from those who raised me by my eyes, and now my…my fucking marked face. From an entire country by my utter failure. My miserable, laughable, inescapable _failure_.

Again.

He’s _gone_.

I don’t dare show up at the Seventh Heroine without the Hero and provide irrefutable proof to everyone there that I’ve failed. Completely failed. _Again_. Fuck, Regan didn’t even have a chance to _try_, and he’s already shown himself to be a better _esclavin_ than I am. More devoted. Capable. Strong. Confident. Cognizant. He’s even a better match mentally, and has a similar sense of humor. More extroverted. Less damaged. Not a fucking violet whore who’s sold himself for vending machine kinds of cash.

He’s _exactly_ what a Sheik should be. Everything I’m _not_.

No matter how hard I try, I’ve _never_ been enough. Will never be enough. Being here is all the damning proof I need. Link’s _gone_, and I have no idea where. Or when. Or how. Without a word. Not even good enough for that, are you, Kaya? Dropped the ball that you shouldn’t even be playing with, let alone trying to juggle. No wonder he left. Didn’t even take his shit with him beyond what he was carrying at the time, just so he could be rid of _you_.

Regan’s better, anyway…in every way.

I’m…a traitor of the worst kind. Not by making a selfish decision, or changing my mind after being presented with _learning opportunities_. No. I’m just too _stupid_¸ too _pathetic_, too _fucking weak_ to be entrusted with a guardianship of _anyone_, let alone a royal consort. Let alone this Era’s _Hero_.

Too stupid to live, really.

…that’s easy enough to fix.

Hylia loves everyone, but idiots especially, so I don’t have to force myself go into the same make and model of shed I spent the bleakest years of my life in in order to get the cans of spray-paint. Bad enough that I’ve continued the farce for this long, I don’t need to cause Purah or Danpe or Hanju or _anyone_ even _more_ trouble cleaning up my mess after I…fix the problem. Don’t need to make Regan blame himself for bringing me up here in the first place. It’s not his fault I didn’t do this sooner. Don’t need to give Link any reason to hesitate in fulfilling his destiny and helping Princess Hilda to save literally everyone and everything. He doesn’t need me. My Tears of Light are the calm and cool proof of _that_ against my wrist.

No looking back, Kaya. No regrets. You’re actually going to fix the problem, this time. Neat and tidy. Simple. It’ll be okay. Better. Definitely better. For everyone.

Scorch the ledge with Fire to dry it off. Reflect to repel the rain while I spray the Runes for absorption, neutralization, and containment. Seal the paint, seal the circle. Pray all the prayers that I can pray without offering further insult to the Goddesses. Nayru’s Blessing stays dormant, showing me that yes, they _will_ be better off this way. Not that that’s a surprise. If I’d been paying _any_ attention at all I…

…should have done this twelve years ago when I first had the opportunity. Avoided…everything that followed. Given the Goddesses a chance to build the Hero someone _better_ than Eran’s broken violet reject of a spook. Someone _worthy_ of the hope that he inspires. Not some useless mess of a whore too thick to know when to just give up already.

Took me twelve years, but I get it. Finally.

It’s almost a relief. Would be, if I could still feel anything beyond bitterest shame and a rancid-hot self-loathing so thick it sticks in my throat, choking me and making my eyes water in the rain.

I _failed_…and it doesn’t even matter.

Pouring as much of myself into a succession of Spirit Orbs as I can and still function enough to finish it takes longer than I thought it would this time, but does drain me enough that I’m feeling light-headed and almost giddy as I strip off the nice, new clothes, my tools, my bindings, and step out of my boots. They’re all in good to excellent condition. Someone else will be able to use them, and I certainly don’t need them anymore. Someone – probably Regan, if he ever comes back here – will even be able to use the Spirit Orbs, and the spray-paint Runes should prevent my residuals from becoming anything untoward. Maybe a Luminous Stone or two, but that’s it.

I keep my pants and socks and boxer briefs, because the pants are still stained with a lot of mine and a little of Link’s blood and vomit both, the socks have a hole on the ball of my right foot, and second-hand underwear is disgusting. Not that I haven’t done it, but never a set that’s been as garbage as the person wearing it, which this is.

Just have to aim for the dumpster seven stories down, Kaya, with the rest of the trash, and physical clean-up is taken care of, too.

The moment I step outside of my wards to clamber up onto the ledge a chip of cement breaks free and falls down, clattering like applause. Leading the way. I gaze over Castletown to raise one final fuck you finger, and the indifferent city streets light up in a surge of crystalline clear golden waves and warm sunrise jubilee. The scouring wind and the freezing rain hit me like a backhanded compliment.

One final refusal where nature itself has turned against me. It’s a hard pill to swallow, but it’s just a pill. A manufactured remedy, sour and unpleasant and ruthlessly effective. The ground will be much harder…and probably hurt a lot more if I don’t manage to connect head first. It’s…a long way down. A _really_ long way down, but...I…

I…

…

Oh, Nayru. Oh, Goddesses. Oh, _fuck._

The prospect of even more pain freezes me in my tracks at the very edge of precipice. As masochistic as I am, I…am not a fan of pain. I’m _not._ Not really. Just the relief it brings as it sings through my veins. The absolution it carries in its wake, when the punishment is appropriate to the crime. I…can’t…take any more of it. I _can’t._ Looking down over the beckoning abyss waiting for me to step into it, at how far down the ground is, I have to acknowledge that, and a couple other things.

Link is not Eran.

Dying here, twelve years after the fact, will not bring Eran back.

Dying here, now, won’t even bring Link back.

It would be meaningless. I _already_ fucked up. Twice. It’s done. _Nothing_ will change that. _Nothing_ I do can atone for that mistake. _Nothing_. Especially if I don’t try. Dying here would mean absolutely nothing…

…and I don’t _want_ to. I don’t. I just…don’t want to hurt anymore. I’m tired of the constant pain. Don’t want to face even more of it. Don’t want to be alone. I _don’t_. Alone fucking _hurts_. It hurts _so much_. I…understand the man I call my _domine_ so much better, now. The one who made me not-alone again for the first time in ages. Who is somewhere, down there.

It’s…so far down. I didn’t realize how far I had left to fall.

I…

…I can’t do it. Can’t take the leap. Can’t even manage that much. Such a simple thing, and _I can’t even_…the additional failure hurts almost as much as the cement cap of the brick fence scraping against the clammy skin of my feverishly burning forehead as I drop back to the roof and sink to my knees. A throat-tearing sob wrenching itself from my gut, bringing up another immediately after. And another. And another. For the first time in the same ages of being alone, I can’t hold it in. Can’t keep it down. Can’t even muffle it in my hands or knees.

Can’t stop.

=/=

With the Castletown residents celebrating with their loved ones below, there are mercifully no witnesses to my utter failure at the first basic principles of being a Sheik when my jagged, heaving breaths turn into actual heaving even though I’ve nothing left to bring up. Just bile and loathing and a total loss of control when I run completely out of energy and slump to the side. The cement rooftop is cool against my overheated face, and as mercilessly _giving_ as the eyes of the Court when they banished me from the only home I had ever known after Eran died. When I was abandoned. When I was _eleven_.

I am so, so tired.

Of everything. Why do I even try? I _failed. _He’s _gone_. They both are.

Eran. The only home I ever had…until Link. Strong, handsome, honest, kind, courageous, gentle, and…and the Hero. My Hero, even if he can be a bit oblivious and entirely impulsive. Childish, even. Charming, definitely. Loving, even though I don’t deserve it. He…probably fucking saw something shiny and wandered off. He doesn’t desert those he loves. Look at how far he’s gone for Princess Tetra…and how far he’s gone for _you_, despite how much of a hot mess you are, Kaya.

Fucking _think_ around your damn panic and ridiculous ego for half of an overripe second. It’s ass-bleeding obvious. He’s gone to the Seventh Heroine, because that’s where we’re supposed to meet, and Regan was the one who suggested it after they’d been discussing her Highness’ whereabouts. It was on my list of safe places for her to hide. He knows – because of my own covert aetheric reconnaissance, trailing shadows of memories and generations of lineage – that she’s near-by. Of _course_ he’d go to where she’s likely to be at the first opportunity. That’s why we left Korokshire in the first place.

Logic, dumbass. _Use it_.

If I cut through the parking lot, it’s only twelve blocks away. Fourteen if I use the sidewalks. Approximately fourteen more blocks than I can manage in my condition. I can’t even make myself stand. Too cold, tired, hungry, and vertiginous to do that. Drained to the point my perivitae gland is pulsing beneath my ribs, drained in every way, but…not irreparably so. My cords of beads – Spirit Orbs one and all – are an arm’s length away. Crawling there lets me remember and reach the potion bottles, and I don’t stint myself as I would have even two days ago.

Stinting myself is what got me here in the first place. Another habit – borne of years of privation and poverty – that I need to change. That I am changing, slowly. I’ve looked after myself, alone, since I was fifteen and ran from the worst part of the foster system. Or eleven, and was discarded by even the lowest of the palace servants. Maybe at seventeen, when Principal Horwell came and cracked down on the prostitution rings being run out of St. Daira’s and Rusl, Mr. Barnes, and Mr. Hopplupe were arrested. Young enough that the numbers don’t really matter. I _survived_.

I don’t know why I forgot that I could, just because I didn’t _have_ to. I _can_. I’m fucking good at it. I _survived_. The more I reclaim the pieces of myself scattered around the rooftop, the more I remember them, and – slowly – regain my sense. Then I sit up.

I still can’t bring myself to stop crying, my face throbbing and nose leaking as much as my eyes, but for once it…feels good. Like that first gasp of air after being choked for a little too long, or the spreading warmth of a fresh bruise. I…should get warm. I can’t feel my toes, and my damn arm is cramping.

Laying half-naked on the heat-sink of a cement roof in the middle of a spring rainstorm that’s trying to turn into hail is probably the only truly foolish thing I’ve done today. I made mistakes. Less than honorable mention-worthy choices. I’ll make more in the future…but I want that choice, no matter how fucked up my options are. I want…

…fuck, I _want_.

And Link _lets_ me. Link…loves me. All on his own. That’s his choice. I…want that. Want him, no matter how insignificant a portion of him I can claim. That’s mine. That’s my choice, and I find I am willing to defy the Dark God Himself to get it.

The Witchfinders are nothing compared to the Blight of a thwarted Demon God’s Malice. Scorn, disparagement, disapproval, hatred...nothing. Infinitesimal in consequence. Not worth the energy I’ve been using for years to try and gain an acceptance that will never come, not in my lifetime. It’s not worth it. Not when I have a place to belong, a purpose, a _person_ to belong to. A…safety net, or sorts, to catch me if I fall…but I don’t need to fall to take comfort that it’s there. Even if it is new, and unfamiliar, and strange.

Even if that kindness freaks me out more than I can say.

I also don’t need to avoid the shed to avoid what it represents in the back of my dumpster-fire collection of psychoses. It’s just a shed. Shelter, out of the rain, with warmth and food inside. A place to rest, nestled in wards that will keep it safe from most external threats. Where I can send a seeking and hopefully ping the Pirate Charm around Link’s neck like I’ve been tracking Princess Tetra’s blood ties to the Divine Light of the Triforce… once I’ve eaten something.

Just don’t think about it. Think about what you need to do, and do it, Kaya. One thing at a time. One minute at a time. One breath. Inhale. Hold it. No, no, don’t…don’t. Don’t. Control. Inhale. Hold it. Exhale. Hold it. Inhale. There, see? Exhale. Good. Inhale. Hold it. Exhale. Good. Keep it up. Break it down to manageable pieces. After I’ve warmed up. Fuck, it feels like my back is _burning_ it’s so cold. Time to move.

Distance, once. Door, twice. Breathe, continuously. Shelter acquired. Ding, you disparaging dead-dog _fuckers_, achievement unlocked.

Shivering so hard I have to look like I’m having a grand mal seizure means I can’t curl up in Regan’s blanket, and I have to wait for the tiny space heater to work its magic. Magic that I can’t expedite, because I can’t speak or hold my spasming muscles steady enough to form even the simplest sigils, let alone adjust the keys or dial. I can, however, _think_, and plan. Stop fucking _crying_. Breathe. Think some more.

Fire.

It’s been raining all day, and the Champion’s Barrier has been restored, yet there was still enough Malice in the ambient aetheric brume to coalesce not one, but _three_ upper echelon Remnant manifestations. Referencing people’s current fears, rather than the element with the greatest natural presence. Meaning that either the nature of Malice has changed entirely from every example of every encounter in all of recorded history, or there’s something – _someone_ – directing it in a type of…opportunistic summoning. Using the available energies to deliberately stoke panic instead of just letting the Blight spread haphazardly.

The last recorded entity capable of such a thing aside from Demise’s own Avatar was the Sorcerous Necromancer Zant, in the Twilight Era, and even he eventually fell to the mindless ravening of the Malice that gave him his fearsome power. An admittedly brilliant tactician, reduced to little more than a drooling puppet, all for the sake of a usurped Throne and the lies of an insane, possessed demi-god. Just as they did in the beginning of the Twilight Era, these manifestations appear to have come from an active intelligence deliberately manipulating localized aetheric fields with the goal of causing as much damage as quickly as possible.

Great, now my hands are shaking for an entirely different reason. Mostly because I know exactly how close you have to be to perform that kind of spell-work, and it’s _fucking close._ Not as close as an outright healing, but closer than I am at _all_ comfortable with. Like…throwing distance, because you have to “throw” the seed-Rune in order to cast-on any sequential spell, which a summoning definitely qualifies as. Forty meters at most.

At least I’ve stopped sniveling.

The three Remnants I know about were too far apart for whoever was doing it to be on foot, so there were either more than one double-doctorate level mage just waiting for the Barrier to be restored, or they had transportation. A skateboard, maybe. Or a bicycle.

Or a car. _Think_, Kaya. Modern tech’s back up and available, and you’re an idiot.

“N-Nav-Navi-i, t-track L-Link. Dis-p-play.” Chattering teeth don’t interfere with the voice recognition, though I nearly drop my phone twice getting it out of my jacket pocket.

“Hey, look what I found!” I normally find the digital assistance program annoying as a hangnail, but it has its uses. My screen lights up with the last half-hour of movement – before that the data is unavailable – but it shows me where we’ve been and where he is right now. Stalled, seven blocks away, for the last two minutes.

“Nav-vi, c-call L-Lin-nk.” I instruct, and the display shows that it is actually dialing, that it _does_ connect…and goes to voicemail. The same with my second attempt. And my third, though each time my voice is a little steadier, a little stronger. I’m thawing out, slowly. Too slowly. My clothing is still utterly drenched. A magic pot gets me the strength to sustain a minimal level conjured fire to carefully heat them for three agonizing minutes where he doesn’t move at all.

I dress as quickly as I can, grab my pack, stuff most of the nearest shit inside, and force my wobbly legs into a run. Hope that I’m not so utterly fucked that I’ll need a second asshole just to keep up…but by the time I’m down the fire escape he’s moving again. Not like I am, because he’s using the sidewalk on the side of the double and triple lane roads and I’m not. I’m also not in as great a shape as I was the last time I tried doing shit like this, and nearly eat it vaulting over the parkade barrier, then again taking the cement stairs on the other side three at a time…but I don’t slow down.

I don’t dare.

My urgency has me funneling what few _saithr_ strands I can spare into moving faster, my adrenals spiking, burning through everything I can just to catch up.

Stalled reconstruction where a Malo Mart burned down six years ago has me wanting to hug Miss Risoka for that session on the tightrope, because even as my heart skips a beat my feet know what to do and do it with next to no conscious input on my part over a series of boards strewn across scaffolding that disappears into the basement’s pit. The gap in the mesh fence between Kuro’s Curios and the abandoned pawn shop next door give me a means of cutting through to the alley behind both, and I can use the Milk Bar’s grease trap to ricochet onto the same street Link is on, a block ahead.

I’m too late to help...but he’s got the situation under control, the Bokoblin – last of what I must assume to have been a clusterfuck or whatever the collective noun is for that particular type of Remnant – is already fading to ash and washing down the storm drain with the rest of the spring mud.

He’s okay. Well, as okay as he was this morning. More okay than I am now. Moving easily, whereas each step for me sends a throb of pain through the stitch in my side, shivers through my overtaxed muscles, and the artificial restoration of the potions hang flimsy and hollow in my gut. Seeing him, though, alive and whole and determined and just as honorably, ridiculously, _damnably_ Heroic as ever…it’s enough. I’ve followed him this far in his quest to be reunited with his Princess – tripping and stumbling and nearly failing too many times to count – so why should the last two blocks be any different?

Logically, that’s how. Duh. Entropy is a thing, Kaya, remember? Everything eventually goes straight to the Dark Realm if there’s no one to maintain it. Hundreds of Shrine Monks preserving equipment and strength and experiences for the Hero of Champions, for instance. Hundreds. Not that buildings deteriorate faster than my attention span, reminding me that arson is also a thing.

More fire in the heart of a spring storm system…though this one has already burnt out.

The Seventh Heroine is ash, and char, and has three melted metal beams sticking up in the air like the shattered ribs of a desiccated corpse. The Second Chance consignment shop next door fared a little better, though not much more than one blackened wall of bricks remains of that, either. I’m just glad that the priest of the Church of the Holy Triangle on the other side is also a Bachelor of Formulaic Defense like I’m trying to be, or there would have been nowhere left for Muava and Rotana to go…and return to serve what looks like stew and a flatbread out of two kettles to the line-up curving halfway around the block.

The sight has stopped my _domine_ in his tracks, his colors shifting and flaring wildly enough that I’m surprised he doesn’t spontaneously combust. Not that we need more untamed fire in our lives right now. Or water, with the steady rain turning the streets to silver gilt and chilling me to the core. It wasn’t as bad before my emotional indulgences pulled a fast one and hijacked my train of thought.

Yeah, that’s what we’ll call it. Hopefully no one asks. It’s not like it shows the same way the scars on Grant’s wrists do. Did. Fuck. _Did_. Scars fade. Bones heal, as long as you’re alive. Dead’s dead. No one knows that better than a Sheikah, though our Hylian betters sure don’t like to be reminded of it. They seem to take it as a personal affront that death exists at all, and then buried any hint of the lengths they’ve gone to in attempts to deny it.

I…still crave the peace it offers. I just _want_ more than that. So much more.

If I know what’s good for me – now that the opportunity has come and gone – Link will never know how close I came. _Never_. I get a grand total of six steps closer to his side before my legs have had enough of my extra chunky bullshit and give out on me like the foster care system. Slowly and inexorably, sliding me down towards ground. Should have had another potion, or eaten one of the instant meals scattered across Regan’s bed. Given this isn’t the first time I’ve experienced this – remarkably clear headed and calm, just with shit all for stamina – probably should have eaten something. Something more than the boosters. There was even an open stew packet right there, and any bugs in it would just mean more protein.

Something, something, hindsight, fuck off.

Unlike within Whittleton Manor, under the disappointed gaze of my master and his friend, I don’t have a pre-prepared meal ready and waiting in my bag. All of the self-heating ones are still in the shed Regan was using, but it’s not the first time I’ve eaten instant noodles raw and without the flavor packet that’s mostly salt. Dried apple slices help, but make me thirstier than the noodles alone can account, so I raise my Silver Scale to my lips instead of as a make-shift weapon. Got to stay hydrated when seeking personal redemption and all that.

While I chew – and chew, and chew, and chew – my _domine_ seems to remember he’s brandishing a weapon that’s been around in various forms for millennia, and wipes it on his pant leg before sheathing it, meaning I’ll have to check it later and give it a good oiling besides. Until we find _the_ sword, it’s the only one he’s got. The shield on his back is his only shield. His only bow is back up seven flights of wrought iron fire-escape. His disavowed Sheik is in the middle of the road waiting for a digestive process to provide the energy to stand. Including having dehydrated noodles soften enough to swallow since chewing is too much effort right now.

He doesn’t look back, disappearing in the crowd. Why would he? He’s the Hero. I need to catch up.

Like Rusl said, spitters are quitters, and I learned how to give him a damn fine blow-job in less than a week. I owe Link a fuck of a lot more than I ever owed that opportunistic pederast, even if it took me longer to understand that the Earl of Korokshire is a man unlike any other I have had the pleasure to serve…because unlike every other man I _have_ served, he doesn’t want me to. He only wants me to be myself.

I’m the one that wants to serve him.

Link is not Eran. Eran was the Prince and Future King, down to the last iota of his being. Perfect…and stagnant for it. A relic of a bygone era. Link is the Hero – Hylia’s sword – for weal or woe. Change…_Courage_…incarnate.

Time to move, Kaya.

Fuck I wish I was drunk enough to be able to use it as an excuse for the way I end up staggering my way down the street in the general direction of the Seventh Heroine. The Human lady with her middle-school brats in the queue thinks that’s a perfectly reasonable way to explain it to them, and I just don’t have the fucks needed to correct her. Not that correcting her would do anything but piss her off, anyway, and I don’t have the fucks for that either. Walking is just intentionally falling in a specific direction anyway, right? An intention that takes all of my willpower to continue, regardless.

“Back of the line!”

“Damn spook!”

“No cutting!”

“Hey, asshole!”

“Kaya?” Muava blinks up at me from where she’s been ensconced in a poncho meant for either a remarkably large Gerudo or a small Goron to keep off the rain, with a goose-down jacket that would normally get her jumped around here if she was anyone else underneath to counter the chill. Shit like that’s as expensive as my tailored suits, and the kind of quality that will last a generation. Link probably has at least two, one of which is guaranteed to be in a green that doesn’t suit his coloring at all.

“_Sav’votta, Vaba._” I try to recall my appropriate honorific forms and salutations, belatedly remembering she hasn’t seen my face since the Goddesses decided I needed to stand out even more than I already did in what has to qualify as one of the top ten anime betrayals of all time. “_Ana…_”

“_Vehvi_!” Rotana turns, shouting over her shoulder in a way that only drill sergeants and diner wait staff can. “Got another one!”

“Seriously, _Vaiba?” _Nabooru complains, straightening up from behind some of the rubble with iron tongs in hand and a glowing coal pinched between the ends. At least I know I won’t have to stoke the cook-fire. “I just…oh, hi nerd.”

“Hiya Boo.” I sigh, wanting nothing more than to sit down and not get up again for a week. If I do sit though, I probably won’t be _able_ to get up for a week.

“I know you haven’t existentially changed your orientation, so what are you doing here?” She asks as she brings the sizzling hot coal over and puts it under Muava’s cauldron to keep the soup at a gentle simmer. “And what’s with that tatt? It’s spectacular work, but a bit redundant, don’t you think?”

“Pre-arranged rendezvous point…” I explain, swaying on my feet. “…with a really tall plains Sheikah man about my age and a hottie of a Hylian Lordling.”

“Your rendezvous have a name?” She asks. “Or is this just a hook-up?”

“Regan Deya, and Lord Lincoln Fitzherb…” On a good day, I can beat Nabooru two out of three throws based on speed alone. The other one she connects, or gets a grip that I can’t eel out of, and she simply overpowers me. Today, the hand she slams over my mouth – pressing my lips painfully into my teeth – is enough to knock me off my feet and onto my ass, and I simply do not have any get-up-and-go left after breaking my fall.

None whatsoever, though I’ll take a crying grey sky over a seething red one any day.

“Up.” She grunts, and the world disappears from under me. Either she hit me harder than I thought, or I’m disassociating again, because I don’t remember there being a discussion about going anywhere and I can’t feel anything except the warmth of her arms under my legs and back as she carries me bridal-style away from the soup-line.

“Whu…” I try to ask, and am wracked with a shiver that has her tightening her grip and clucking her tongue.

“You’re nothing but skin and bones. Try consuming something beyond the written word some time, nerd.” The sarcastic chastising makes me snort, which in turn causes another shivering spasm to course through me.

“I…” I literally ate less than five – maybe ten? – minutes ago. Recently.

“Shush, you. Save your strength, because I need you to stand up by yourself in a second.”

“Mm.” Grunting acknowledgement, I let myself rest in her solid grasp, and regret not being kinder in my rejection. Never mind that I’ve got much…rougher…preferences than she does when it’s all said and done, but…I’m just not aroused by women, even if they have what most of the mainstream Hyrulean media considers masculine traits. I still could have been nicer about it, and saved myself the guilt right now. “’m sorry, Boo.”

“I know. You stink of dried blood, sour vomit, old regret, fresh tears, and a lovely little Hylian snack that I met not five minutes ago.” She complains. “Why are all the good men already claimed, violet, or both?”

“Sorry.” I don’t even know what I’m apologizing for, though I am apologetic. Maybe existing.

“That was a rhetorical question, _nerhid_. You aren’t responsible for how the wind shifts the sands.” Nabooru snorts. The rain has stopped somewhere along the way. I only notice because the wind has, too, and for some reason my biceps of all things _itch_ as though I’ve got all the escapees from an entire three-ring flea circus crawling just beneath my skin.

My hand twitches in a familiar pattern as my body takes up the localized aether and attempts to blend in, so I deliberately close my fist as best I can to try and control it. Gift of the Goddesses or not, I _do not_ have the strength right now.

“Alright, I’m going to put you down. Just try and stand still.” She murmurs, her insistent iridescence shifting through copper and pumpkin and bold brass swells. True to her word, I’m put on the ground and steadied by her forearms that are about the size of my calves. Fortunately for my already tenderized dignity, I can keep my feet without her support, though my vision wavers worse than the horizon in a heat-wave.

There are a series of Ancient Hylian cuneiform markings pressed into the cement beneath my feet, and the itching in my arms gets worse as she hums six notes in one of the most primitive methodologies for untrained mages to utilize preset spell structures. Uncontrolled and dicey as a roll for initiative, all the Songs require from the user is the intent to access and the necessary strength to complete the circuit. With those two things, _anyone_ can use them.

It’s akin to putting a toddler in command of a train. Accidents happen. Frequently and catastrophically, which is why such open-access platforms _aren’t used by any responsible society_ anymore. Aren’t used by anyone _sane_, since they’re just too dangerous. My heart rises in my throat, but it’s too late. Far too late. If I interrupt at this point…best not to think about it, Kaya. Don’t do it. _Don’t_…

Well, fuck.

The reduction of my constituent aetheric elements into the simultaneous waves and particles of light required for a comprehensive _saithr_ strand restructuring at the intended terminus is somewhere between a hair-raising horror and piss-inducing panic, and I enjoy approximately none of it even though I know exactly what is happening as it happens. I’ve done it myself. Under my own damn control and at my own fucking direction while knowing precisely where the fuck I’m going and having every precautionary safeguard and catalyst-enhancement engaged. Just to guarantee I don’t obliterate myself down to the last atom, have all my bits where they belong, ensure the terminus is clear, am not combined with another soul in transit, and emerge in the same space-time continuum I left.

You know, _details_. Details the Ancients neglected to consider – let alone _account_ for – Din damn it!

I also don’t entirely trust Nabooru. Not after waking up in her bed with no recollection of how I got there. I know she won’t _physically_ hurt me, and it certainly wasn’t the first time that I’ve done the walk of shame, but…yeah. Having her send me Farore knows where from the charred ruins of the Seventh Heroine has me uselessly burning through the last of my energy in a few pearl-clutching seconds before the actual heat-wave hits like a demonic fart to the face.

_Everything_ wavers, my pulse throbbing as I instantly feel my skin tighten. It’s all I can manage to angle my fall just enough that I slide off the platform, collapsing the moment I have a form to collapse in. There’s a ceiling that quickly fades to black, and cool stone at my back. Angled. Bumpy. Stairs, I think. I can only pray that wherever Nabooru’s flung me is close to where my master is, and not somewhere across the country like the Torin Wetland or Death Mountain itself.

It’s…so hot…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well...that was a climax to a subplot.
> 
> Reaching out can be really hard. So can knowing who to reach out to, especially in times of crisis. As I am NOT a citizen of the USA, here's some options that include but are not limited to people from that particular region of the globe.
> 
> http://www.suicide.org/international-suicide-hotlines.html


	24. The First Law of Motion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An object in motion tends to stay in motion.  
Link continues to be a goal-oriented oblivious idiot...and keeps moving.
> 
> TW - none  
CW - heat-stroke, sap, mush, romantic goop, gross get it off me, cultural misinterpretations, language barrier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAAH!!!  
One Thousand and One Apologies!!!  
I had a cute summary all typed up and then my computer decided that it needed to install updates for three hours...so this is VERY late. (not by a day or anything, just by my own standards and thus, somehow, worse)
> 
> I uh...also re-introduce another language in this chapter, but like the rest, context makes apparent everything that I currently want you to know. Which is nothing. Yet. /cackles
> 
> FC = 0  
Link is a good boy, and very polite, even when swearing would be deemed appropriate.

I don’t remember ever _not_ loving Tetra.

How could I, when the foggiest, most distant recollections of my childhood are filled with her presence? Her voice? Her touch? Her smile? Running in the grass of the palace lawn while our parents worked and our nurses looked on, she was there. The first days of school, with kids from everywhere across all of Hyrule finding friends and rivals and enemies and playmates and partners, she was there. Holidays on the beach, in the desert, the forest, the mountains, the fields…Tetra. _Always_ Tetra.

When I had my first crush in grade two, she was there to listen to me gush. My first heart-break when he started dating one of his classmates, she was there to comfort me, wipe away my tears. When I couldn’t figure out who I was more jealous of – Huan Yi or Dah Lin – she didn’t make me choose one over the other. Just listened to my reasoning for wanting what they had. Both of them. Helping me determine who I wanted to become when I was their age…Tetra was there at my side.

When Eran died…the way she clung to me, seeking comfort that I was honored to provide. 

She was there to fill the silence that followed me when my mom died, in turn. Evening out everything between us beneath the weight of crushing grief. Sharing each experience, good and bad and mediocre. Making her unquestionably my very best friend. Making us inseparable.

My constant, steady measure, no matter what tempo or key the rest of the world tried to play.

Fifteen and foolish, showing off on the water during a state visit to Zora’s Domain. A summer on the shores of Lake Hylia. Horseback riding, swimming, singing, laughing. Melted marshmallows around the fire and chocolate kisses under the stars, I knew love. Quiet, steady and sure, I knew. It was her. It had always _been_ her. It still is. Those still waters run deep.

Kaya is new. Burning hot and quick and sudden. Unlooked for and unexpected, but delightful all the same. An adventure that I don’t think I’ll get tired of having…but new. I don’t know, yet, if that heat will die down to a simmer, or go cold over time. It’s passionate, and powerful, and _love_…and as uncertain as it is intense. Not like Tetra, or Malon, and I don’t know if it’s because he’s a man, or because I haven’t known him as long as I’ve known both of the women I love, or something else entirely.

And it’s not that I love Malon any _less_, either. Just differently. I love them both – all – individually. When we’re together, exponentially. Malon matches me in a reckless way that Tetra simply isn’t inclined to. Malon compliments Tetra in a way that I can’t possibly match, and I want them to be happy. When they’re happy, I’m happy. My sun and my moon. It’s just…I can’t love Tetra any _more_. I can’t. She’s the light of my life. Spring rains, summer sun, autumn harvests and winter snow…I measure the seasons in her smile.

Without her, time stops.

I need to go.

It doesn’t matter whether its Deku-Scrubs, Deku-Baba, Bokoblins, Bulblins, Wizzrobes or giant bugs that I need to cut down. I’ll cut them down. To get back to her side. Where I belong. Five Bokoblins – four red, one blue – this time. They're in the way. They fall. I move forward. Sheath the sword I barely remember drawing and keep going. She’s _so_ close. It doesn’t matter how many crowds I have to push my way through. I just need to find her. See her. Hear her voice. Know she’s okay.

I would do nearly anything to make sure she’s safe. _Anything_. Fortunately – aside from Regan’s stonewalling and Kaya’s reluctance – everyone I talk to seems to be willing to help. The ladies of the Seventh Heroine included, even with the embers of their lives around them and acrid smoke thick in the air, they _help_.

Including the one Gerudo woman – much younger than either of the two owners – that I don’t know and has no reason to help me besides doing what her elders say.

“Stand perfectly still, my Lord.” Rotana’s daughter – I’ve temporarily misplaced her name, too focused on remembering the simple instructions I barely registered that I’m supposed to follow while Tetra’s name skips over and over an endless coda in my mind – asks me, and it’s nearly the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Tetra is _so close_…but I don’t know precisely where that is, or what close even means anymore. That is only the first of a scant handful of reasons I latch onto so I can stop fidgeting and obey her request. Stand still, even if I want nothing more than for all this to just _hurry up._

I need to go. Find Tetra. I _need_ to. That’s the first reason. If I listen – if I’m still – this tall Gerudo lady _will_ take me to her. She promised, and I believe her. The second is that the tall Gerudo lady is tall, and fit, and could easily break me over her knee. Forcing my compliance wouldn’t be difficult, and I’m the one that asked in the first place. The third is she’s…looking. I know the difference between idle flirting and active pursuit, and she is definitely on the prowl. Hunting, really, and I’d rather not be her prey. The sensation of impending doom isn’t my cup of tea.

I can still manage to be polite, though. My mom taught me that much.

“Thank you, Miss?” Pre-emptive gratitude, even if I want scream in frustration, is only appropriate. I’m careful not to move anything aside from my lips, as she was very insistent that I don’t move, don’t flinch, barely even breathe.

“Mistress Nabooru Nahn of House Ashai. Remember it.” She insists before humming six notes that activate the…writing…on the pad. They’re not Runes, the figures not nearly as complex or layered, but they _are_ magic. Sheik would know, if I remember to ask him once he and Regan are finished with the alarms and can catch up.

I probably won’t. At least, not until _after_ I see Tetra with my own two eyes. Hear her with my own two ears. Touch her with my own two hands, and know that she’s safe.

Please, Hylia. Let her be safe.

_Please_.

By the time the last note has faded from my ears, I couldn’t move even if I wanted to. Everything is…light. Bright. I’d close my eyes against the glare but I don’t have eyelids. I don’t have eyes, or arms to raise, or any _form_ at all. Floating. There’s an odd stillness beyond anticipation and dread. For half a second. One. Two. Three. Three seconds. The light fades, or maybe I’m just actually seeing things again. Hearing things. Feeling things.

Good_ Lady_.

I never knew that heat had a scent, and the sudden weight of it is intense and disorienting. Breathing in makes me cough as the very air seems to sear my lungs. I shudder and spasm as my muscles seize, however briefly. It’s dry enough that it takes me a few shallow breaths to adjust, and another few to shed my jacket and move towards the light at the end of the tunnel.

I have no idea where I am, just that I’m one step closer to finding my fiancée…though I’ve a feeling I’m not in Castletown anymore. Or within the old bounds, for that matter, since the regular robustly orchestral thrumming of my homeland is reduced to ambient chimes with the barest wisps of melody…even though that melody is familiar. Faint, but familiar. I listen closely, and before I reach the opening of the hand-hewn cave the progression of chords vibrating in the air tells me that I’m in the desert.

Somehow. Magic. I’ll figure it out later, but for now, I need to go.

The utter lack of any other sound – ambient or otherwise, tells me I’m alone. Entirely alone. I can’t even hear any insects, just the hushed cascade of the hundreds of millions of grains of quartz and stone that used to be mountains endlessly shifting to the rhythm of a lonely wind’s leading song.

For the second time in mere minutes my breath catches in my throat and my eyes burn…but for the first time since leaving home I _know_ Tetra is close by. She’s so close that I can _feel_ it, deep my gut. In my very _soul_. So profoundly that I’m certain it would take a thousand lifetimes to even start to fade. My head and my heart are in agreement for the first time since leaving my physical home in order to find my emotional one. She’s _close_. I just need to keep moving. The brilliant sun isn’t far from high noon, and the desert isn’t getting any cooler.

Rotana said I’d have to be careful if I didn’t want to burn, and now I understand that wasn’t euphemism or hyperbole. Just a fact of the environment. One that can be mitigated. People have lived here for millennia, after all.

Goddess it’s hot, but if I take off another layer I’ll crisp enough to look like a lobster in less than half an hour with this kind of sun. I _have_ to be sweating. It evaporates before I can tell, though, and doesn’t leave me any cooler for it. Using my jacket as a parasol will keep the direct light from my skin, but does nothing for the searing heat of the very air itself.

There’s not only a scent, but a _sound._ One that warbles the closer I get to the mouth of the cave as the air twists and warps with the temperature change. A wavering mirage, swirling my senses together until sight and sound, taste and touch, scent and stability blur and merge together just long enough to break apart again and all of it is heat.

I dare not go outside. Not when inside this shadowed cavern is merely simmering and every grain of sand that the light touches outside sizzles. Not until I’ve acclimatized enough that I no longer feel nauseous. Lightheaded. Washing my face with water from my Silver Scale helps, but leaves the skin tight and sticky. Wetting my shirt thoroughly and covering my mouth makes breathing easier, and I venture out further towards the cave entrance, searching.

Sure enough, Rotana’s promised talismans lie exactly where she said they would be, though it takes me a moment to recognize them for what they are. I’m used to talismans being small pendants or rings with a single spell etched into them and some sort of fetish to power that spell; usually a bead like the multitude Sheik wears in his hair wrap, though the cheaper ones use gemstones for the same purpose.

This is…different. Almost primitive in appearance and material, but finely detailed and expertly wrought, nearly the size of my palm. I can carry it in one hand, but it’s not a comfortable fit, especially since the sweat that I’ve been producing that’s been evaporating too quickly to do me any good starts collecting the moment I touch one of them. Picking it up from the pile leaves my hand damp. The lump of turquoise, sapphire, and tarnished silver is interspersed with pearls and might have – at one time – been a large pendant, or meant for a Yeti.

At least it works. Slipping it into my pocket turns the searing gusts into a gentle, cool wind, and lets me step back out of the cave and into a small, rough-hewn canyon. Protection, check. Determination, check. Caution, flung to the wind. Direction…still needed, but easy to find. I climb the steep stairs winding up the last of the hill the cavern was carved into so I can scan the horizon for the first of a dozen flags marking the path travelers are supposed to follow.

Nabooru said to wait for her, for help, to make the journey easier – and Rotana agreed – but I _can’t_. None of this has been easy, and I am _done_ waiting. I’ve already come this far, and haven’t been any kind subtle about my destination. Looking back will get me nowhere. Forward is the only way I can go, but the desert itself gives me pause, and it’s not the temperature alone that catches my breath.

It’s desolate…but beautiful. Hot. The shape of the dunes is incredibly sensual, their rippling waves and gentle curves stand in stark relief beneath a brilliant sun, tracing their shapes over the horizon. Squinting towards that rippling horizon, I catch a glimpse of dark wood and bright color that fades and flickers with the glare of sunlight on the distant salt flats, the squat shades of a city beyond even that, and move.

Tetra is _there_. She has to be.

Tetra is _waiting_. For me. I know it in the very depths of my being. I just have to get to her.

I go.

My steps are more of a controlled plummet down the dunes that makes me wish I had skis, but the first set of posts looms high over my head quickly because of it. The path to the second is an utter slog that leaves my calves aching and sore. The dune angles upward from there, and the once colorful banner marking the third set of posts along the path has been bleached by the intense, unrelieved light.

The weight of each increasing Centigrade degree presses down on me even with the talisman, and the sand shifts and crumbles beneath my feet. The acrid scent of burning plastic rises as the polymers in the soles of my shoes start to heat and soften. The flags waver, hanging limp and still for want of a relieving breeze. Pouring more water over my head between the fourth set of posts does nothing for my comfort, and drinking makes my stomach churn.

I push on, not daring to drop my jacket, the shade it provides lowering the temperature around me by precious increments. The sun becomes a testament to oppressive heat. It’s _so_ hot, my head actually hurts. Like it’s going to explode. Is this what it’s like, to be roasted alive? By the sixth set of flags I need to stop. Catch my breath. My legs have no strength, and this is only the sixth set of flags. The sixth! There are twelve, the Gerudo lady – Nabooru, that’s it – said. Nabooru Ashai.

Goddess, I’m only halfway there. Wherever _there_ is. Where Tetra is. That’s all that matters.

Tetra…I’m coming. Hold on just a little while longer. I’m coming. I promise. I…

I should have stayed in the cave and waited like Nabooru said, but…I need to hear her voice. See her smile. The real one, lop-sided and toothy and completely inappropriate for the cameras. Hidden beneath the training and protocol, away from the public gaze. Ugly and vapid according to the tabloids. The one that I think is perfect, because it’s genuine. It’s _Tetra_. I would do anything to see that smile again. Anything. Including walking across all of Hyrule on foot, if I have to.

_Please_, Hylia, let her be okay.

I…have to go. Can’t let _anything_ get in my way. It’s just a little sand. A wee bit of sun. Some heat. Exhaustion. Hunger. Uncertainty. Pining. More than I’ve experienced of any of them, all together at once, but no more than that. I just have to get up. Keep going. Tetra is waiting for me at the end of the guiding flags. Six more to go…

…which set was I heading towards again? The shifting sands have already turned my footprints into small indentations indistinguishable from the rest, and the sun is high enough in the sky that I…can’t tell. Sand glitters and hisses from my feet to the horizon, dunes rising and falling to hide everything but the last and next set of posts with their tattered banners and faded Gerudo script. I need to pick a direction and go. I’m halfway there already.

Standing on my own instead of leaning against the scorched wood shifts the fine grains of golden sand beneath my feet, and I take the path of most resistance. Least resistance means I’ve already been there, and disturbed this eerily quiet landscape with the weight of my wandering. I don’t want to go backwards. I need to keep going forwards, to a place I’ve never been and never anticipated being. At least, not like this.

Perhaps after our wedding. A tour of every corner of Hyrule, with only the panoply required for a Princess of the Blood on her honeymoon, and no more. Some time for just us, and then some time for just the two of us, alone. I think I would have liked that. Would like that. I think I would like that, with her. Visit the sites of Hyrule’s past. Look forward to all of Her tomorrows. With Tetra. And Malon. And Sheik. All of us. Together.

Good _Lady_ it’s hot.

My Silver Scale is wonderful, even if the water is warm by the time it touches my skin, pours over my tongue. At least I’ve stopped sweating. I must be acclimatizing to the parched desolation around me. It’s still too hot, the flags so far away. I should stand up and go, even if it is the wrong way. The cave was cooler, and dark, and out of the sun. If I end up back there, then I can cool off until the sun sinks a little bit lower in the sky, wait for the heat to be a little less unbearable, and try again. I…

The sand sticks to the skin of my palms and burns them at the same time, turning them an angry red. Itchy. Sticks to my face, too. I can smell hot dogs cooking, and the smell makes me nauseous…but where there’s food, there’s people, and where there’s people, there has to be shade. Shelter from the scorching, merciless light. Just...stand up.

Whenever I fall down, I just have to stand back up again, mom said. Every time. Left foot first. I can do this. I have to. Tetra is waiting.

A raucous blart of sound nearly sends me back down it startles me so badly, and I end up taking a knee to stay upright, my shield like a boulder on my back. One that is uncomfortably warm. Before I can regain my feet, a low rumble and cloud of dust coughs into the air in front of me. Shadows in various shades of brown boil up from behind the curve of the dune to cross around the flags I was trying for, the sharp barks of a pod of Sand Seals telling me what it is before my eyes can focus.

Everything keeps wavering, my vision as unsteady as the ground beneath my feet. The brown mirage doesn’t leave, getting closer and clearer with every shallow, dusty breath I take. I find my feet again before the swirling sand and shifting shapes resolve into a welcome sight.

A patrol, I think. Gerudo ladies wearing flowing uniforms, and two others – so bundled up I can’t tell what race they are, let alone what sex – in matching colors. Wearing wraps similar to but not identical with what was on Sheik’s head while he was still under Veran’s curse. Hiding everything but his expressive eyes…though theirs cover even that much from sight. That puts my back up, as does the way they circle me with their Seals, something in my hind-brain recognizing it as a threat. From the precision of the maneuver, synchronized as a group, this isn’t the first time they’ve done this.

I don’t know why I feel the need to flee. The uniform means they’re part of the same group, in some official capacity, and that _should_ mean they’re here to help…but I do. For some reason, they frighten me. Make me wary. Why are they here? Did Nabooru send them? How would she? How would they find me so quickly? The only thing I can think of is the talisman, which is certainly large enough to have Runes for tracking as well as Wind and Ice, and I can‘t drop it without losing the cooling effect that is all that’s keeping me alive. I need it.

Plus, the patrol is already here. I’m surrounded, and have no chance of actually escaping them.

I’m too tired to run, even if I knew exactly where I was going. Too hot. The sand sucks me down, where the patrol’s Seals simply glide. Though they have weapons – scimitars, bows, spears, shields, a single wand, and daggers – they are not drawn. I haven’t done anything wrong. No reason to run, aside from heat-stroke keeping me from thinking clearly. At least I think its heat stroke. There was nothing in the sand when I fell to give me a concussion, though it feels similar.

The one Gerudo stopped directly in front of me smiles, her jewelry flashing brilliantly. Maybe one of her adornments is a badge? I can’t tell, and the only words I know in Gerudo are the ones I learned in the Seventh Heroine. Verbal, not written. Goddess, I’m dizzy. Probably heat-stroke. The circling patrol doesn’t help. They move like the A.R.G. do back home…or a pack of wolves. Jackals? I try smiling back.

“_Sav’orr, sira’ang voe._” The one to my right chuckles, and I find the cool darkness I was searching for.

A weighted weightlessness – so unlike the one instance of transportation magic I’ve felt – and the rushing murmurs of moving water are the first things to greet me, followed by the scent of wet stone and intense thirst. My tongue moves gummy and thick against my lips, takes three tries to break through, and then simply runs over the chapped ridges without moistening them at all. The same seal keeps my eyes shut, my lashes crusted closed until I scrub at them with both hands. Damp hands. Splashing as I lower them. Shallow water. Cool air.

I can’t see much from where I’m reclined, or hear anything aside from the gentle lap of lukewarm liquid against stone and skin, unfamiliar voices murmuring too distantly to make out words, and my own shallow breaths and rabbit-beating heart. Soft blue light tells me I’m in a small, ornately tiled pool, and moving tells me I’m completely naked. No clothes, no weapons, no Pirate Charm. I don’t even have my Silver Scale. I do have my dream-bracelet from Kaya…and earrings. Those are new. Cool metal hoops that I can’t find a clasp or a join for, and therefore can’t take out.

“Hello?” My voice echoes, but no one answers my verbal call, so I try reaching through the aether. I’ve never been very good at it, and get no response. Touching my bracelet does nothing to enhance my grasping for the steady comfort of Kaya’s presence. I’m…alone. Vulnerable and afraid.

I don’t think I’ve ever gotten up faster in my life.

Glancing around, listening for any sign of _anyone_ else, I can see that two baskets lie next to the pool. The first filled with more toiletries than I know what to do with since I can’t read any of the labels, a small face cloth, razor, comb, and two rough towels. The second contains completely unfamiliar clothing of the lightest, finest silk that I have no idea how to wear but know must be expensive. The fabrics feel even better against my damp skin than the Gerudo cotton sheets I have on my bed, and I thought those were the best product available for purchase. Hand-woven by traditional artists, and therefor prohibitively expensive…and worth every shard in comfort and durability.

Clearly I was wrong. It’s not the first time, and definitely won’t be the last. If only I were pleasantly surprised by something at once beautiful, useful, and skillfully made _every_ time I made a mistake, instead of losing something precious because I didn’t appreciate it at the time. I _will_ find Tetra. I will, and once that’s fixed I can work on everything else. Like the Calamity, and what I can do about it. Figuring out what’s happened across Hyrule, and how to make it right. Finding out if…if the Bond between Kaya and I can be restored.

I think I’d take it. I didn’t know how much it helped me, or how much losing it would hurt. My ignorance does not absolve me of the consequences of my actions.

I just have to keep going…and hope.

Sadly, I don’t even know where I am, though I’m not really concerned about passing out in front of the patrol. At least, I think I passed out. I don’t know enough of Hyrule’s second official language to know what the one lady said before-hand, but it seems a reasonable explanation. Waking after a lengthy time spent unconscious has become a distressingly familiar sensation in the last few weeks. Has it even been weeks? I try to count the days but everything since leaving home blurs together and my brain refuses to give up that particular secret.

I do know that kidnappers wouldn’t care for their prisoners this well. Nabooru _must_ have sent for someone to come pick me up, knowing that I couldn’t handle the heat on my own. I can’t blame her. It’s not her fault I left the cave without her. It’s not her fault I don’t understand the language. That’s on me.

Just like it’s apparently on me to clean and dress myself. I can manage the first easily enough, but I will need help with the second, and would really like a cool drink of some kind to refresh myself. I almost turn to the bath water, but from the combined scent and viscosity, it’s very salty and probably wouldn’t be good – or possibly even safe – to drink.

I do what I can, and take the time to check out the lobe piercings in the small hand mirror I’ve been given. They look a little roguish, a little daring, don’t hurt, and don’t have a seam anywhere along the hoop that I can see or feel. I do feel cooler touching them, my fingers tingling as the small hoops seem to hum, and they are a blue stone which is most likely to be sapphire. Magic, then, which is good because that means they’ll be easier to get taken out without scarring afterward.

My rescuers must have had an important reason for doing it, probably to help me cool down, but…I still wish they’d have waited until I could be asked. Surely it wasn’t necessary…but maybe it was. I don’t know.

Tetra would. She knows so much. Or Sheik, maybe, if it truly was for medical reasons.

There’s no helping it for the moment. I need to find someone, explain the situation, and go. My head and my heart are of one accord, a driving mantra of ‘_Tetra, Tetra, Tetra’_ droning through my veins. Hopefully she’s close by. Hopefully my rescuers have taken me directly to her. A bathhouse in the same building, maybe, constructed over a natural spring.

I’m in the desert. It would be an oasis, not a spring.

The moment I lift myself from the water, however, a wave of weakness makes my arms shake and my legs tremble. Not a bathhouse then, but an infirmary of sorts. I can stand – walk, even, though slowly – and realize that the blue illumination isn’t from artistically recessed lighting in the tub, but the water itself.

Good thing I didn’t drink it.

I am thirsty enough to still be thinking about it when I finally hear footsteps approaching, and wrap the thin cotton towel I’ve been given around my waist to greet whoever is coming with at least a little dignity. While I may not have much right now, I do have my pride, my honor, and my integrity. I wear them in place of the clothing that Sheik somehow chose for me – though how he acquired our two outfits is a mystery I did not think to pursue – and stand tall to face the open door.

Even with my spine straightened up and at my full height, the Gerudo lady that enters first towers over me with a brazenly displayed musculature that I can only envy. My core is _strong_, especially for someone my size, but I’m not chiseled. Not like she is. I could slip a quarter into her abs and she would barely have to flex in order for it to hold. She’s definitely the muscle of the group, followed by the brains...if I’m any judge of the amount of deference she shows the older woman that follows at a more relaxed pace.

That one, too, is strong. Hands covered with scars and the whipcord and sinew that a lifetime of physical exertion leaves behind, the older woman is confident in a way that I hope Tetra will be when she’s that age as well. In the face of the first’s powerful stance and second’s powerful regard, I nearly miss the third.

The last person to crowd into the bath chamber is completely covered by long robes, a hooded cloak, and a head-wrap similar to the one Sheik was cursed with, except with Sheik I could still see his expressive eyes. This one – like the two with the patrol – is smaller than their company, and has a fine mesh that I can’t see through in the dim lighting that covers their eyes, with fabric that conceals every trace of the wearer’s skin from casual sight.

I don’t need to see to know that they’re scared, though, where the other two are respectively bored and annoyed. I can hear their heart pounding as they place a large pitcher and mug on a niche carved into the wall probably for that exact purpose. Hopefully it’s for me. My mouth is so dry it hurts.

“_Sabihin, busab._” The older woman fairly growls, confirming in my mind that she doesn’t want to be here and is annoyed that she must be, even if I don’t know why.

“H-hello.” The cloaked figure stutters in a much deeper voice than I would have expected, dipping their head down low in a shaky bow. A man, then, unless or until I find out otherwise.

“Hello.” I return, bowing properly and hoping the towel holds. “My name is Lincoln Fitzherbert von Hestu the fourth, Earl of Korokshire, and Intended of her Highness Princess Tetra Anne Zelda Hyrule.” I greet, introducing myself since there’s no one else here to do it. They may have my wallet and I.D., they may not. I certainly don’t, and assumptions aren’t useful, so it’s really the only way to go about this.

Unfortunately, ‘_this_’ doesn’t go according to any plan or protocol I know of, leaving me holding the towel and wishing it was a shield instead of flimsy cloth, however well woven.

Both of the women start arguing with each other immediately, the buff one seeming stoic while the older one hisses like a wet cat. Neither of them returns the introduction, and the concealed man tucks into himself as though expecting a blow that doesn’t come. At least, not immediately. Carefully, unsure of what it was that set them off but knowing my duty to protect the weak as a Knight of Hyrule extends even here, I move to stand between him and the two women.

They ignore us both, and continue to argue until the strong one pulls out an actual, honest to goodness purple rupee instead of the equivalent bill from her belt-pouch and waves it under the older one’s nose, barking out a string of syllables and pointing to the door.

“Tch.” The elder grunts, grabbing the gem, and leaves. The strong one barks a series of commands at the man cowering behind me, and fairly throws a different belt pouch at him before storming off in the opposite direction. Amber Relics spill across the floor, scattering throughout the room, a couple falling into the shallow tub. I leave the trembling man where he is and peek around the corners, listening until both sets of footsteps have fallen silent.

Then I pour myself a mug from the pitcher, give the concoction a quick sniff, and – finding nothing objectionable – quaff the entire thing. It nearly makes me vomit, acidic and more herbaceous that I anticipated, and feels so good I could cry. Before my stomach has a chance to settle my body fairly screams at me for more, now, _faster_. I know better than to give in to the impulse, know that I want more, and know that doing the same thing again will just make me ill…but more would be good. Very good.

There’s a whole pitcher of it, too.

The next mug I sip, carefully and slowly, as my cowering companion gathers up the Amber Relics scattered across the floor. By the time he’s finished and the pouch is full, I’ve emptied the jug of vaguely fruity and somewhat tangy drink, and could easily empty a second, possibly a third. I don’t want to be rude and demand anything of him, though. One was enough for now.

“Yours, warrior.” He extends the pouch held between both hand towards me, head bowed beneath his brilliantly colored robes. His hands are shaking. I take the pouch with the same gentle care that I always have for things both delicate and fragile, the person holding it more important than what I must assume are the collected bits left over from the monster’s we’ve fought since the sky turned to blood and ash. Of all the things to bring, why those? Where is my Silver Scale? My charms? My clothes? My weapons? My fiancée? Who are these people?

What do they want? For that matter…

“Where am I?” The words are tacky in my mouth, but no longer stiff and dry.

“We are beneath the Rose, warrior. I apologize for the mistake. If you would dress, it shall be corrected immediately.”

“Sorry…” I swallow, wishing for more liquid to assist in getting my words out. “…I didn’t mean that specifically. Where is the Rose? What city?” Is it the one I saw from the top of the stairs over the cave? I didn’t recognize its silhouette, and I’ve only been to the rather obvious tourist trap that is Gerudo Town, before. Three times, in fact, but there aren’t a lot of Gerudo that live there, and all of the ones that do are entertainers for the tourists first, and whatever their actual jobs are, second. That city on the hill looked a lot more like one of the real settlements for the Gerudo themselves, and not a living museum, gift shop, and immersive theater.

“Through the grace of our noble Lady you have been delivered from the burning sands unto the city of Sabak. My merciful Mistress Barriara bought you for the Rose, which is in the Lorn district.” My companion explains, bowing low again. “As a proven warrior, however, you are better suited to Mistress Shabonne’s Coliseum, in the heart of House Barta’s Rally, and will be delivered to her shortly after you dress.”

There’s a lot to unpack there, but I can’t help the little flutter of excitement that forms in my chest as soon as I know what city I’ve ended up in. Of _course_ Tetra would go to the newest of all the Gerudo cities! The older, traditional ones don’t encourage any outsiders to linger, but as a major trade-hub with between Hyrule and Lorule, Sabak does! The _one_ city that a fierce warrior people designed specifically for peace, commerce, and diplomacy. The posts, the signs, the trail in the valley of the dunes that I was following are all part of the city’s defense system, and can be seen from hundreds of kilometers away if you’re in the air.

I wonder…which part of them I was walking on? And where, precisely, is the weird cave located? Why was it made? Who made it? How? I have the same questions about the Lines, now that I’ve been reminded of them. Just like the Zonai City Archaeological Sites in Faron, the monoliths scattered throughout Zorana, the Snowpeak Ruins in Hebra, or the Crowned Ridges in Eldin, and Hyrule Castle itself, the Lines of Sabak are one of Hyrule’s major landmarks. The most recently completed, in fact, though the Glass Aerie in Tabantha is sixteen years into construction and may soon take that title.

I’ve wanted to see them for myself for _ages_, but you have to be of legal age and I’ve been so focussed on my studies and responsibilities since I turned eighteen that I forgot all about the Lines of Sabak. Forgot entirely. _Ayashin o Sabaku. _Goddess, I was walking those very lines and didn’t know it! Only those seeking peaceful pastimes may enter. Any that would try to harm get lost in the sands. It’s the _perfect_ shelter.

My fiancée is a genius! I can’t…

…wait. I must have misheard. That can’t be right. The Gerudo Territories encompass the desert, wastelands, badlands, and surrounding highlands, but they’re still part of Hyrule. They still obey Hyrulean law, they just follow additional, cultural practices in addition to those laws, as outlined by our treaties with the Ruling Council of Hereditary Chiefs. At least, that’s what I thought. What I’ve been told. My companion, still shrouded in his bright red robes, holds out the large rectangle of patterned fine silk.

“You must dress, warrior. Even now, the sun is too strong for Hylian skin.” He insists, but his previous sentences linger in my head. Two words in particular.

“She…_bought_ me?” I ask him, and he nods.

That…can’t be right. There must have been some sort of mistake. Some awful, large, incredible mistake.

Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Link...no amount of keyboard smashing can express the level of dumbassery you continue to display. Congratulations.


	25. Ex-change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sheik wakes up somewhere unfamiliar, with someone unexpected, and isn't that a great way do deploy avoidance tactic #372?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: intrusive suicidal thoughts, self-harm, mild panic attack  
CW: references to; survival sex-work, academic dishonesty, emesis, racism, xenophobia, recreational drug use, self-harm, blood, violence, defecation. Mention of: canon-implied genocide. Also including canon-implied religion, and (because it's a Sheik chapter) language.
> 
> As always, if I missed something, PLEASE tell me and I will update the warnings accordingly.  
Fuck count this chapter : 32 - All courtesy of Sheik, as he likes to use it as a noun, a verb, and an adjective...sometimes all within the same sentence.

.

“Hey! Hey, nerd! C’mon, we’ve got your kind of company and I could really use a hand, here!” Our project leader says, and the last time I fell asleep at her place I woke up in her bed and a lot more naked than I remembered being the night before, with two days left until our deadline instead of the four we started with. Yesterday? Has to be, even if I can’t exactly remember. Four hours sleep in as many days can do that...I must have drifted off. I’m still fucking dead-ass _tired_, so Nabooru better have a good reason for yelling like that.

As fine a cup of coffee as she can brew and as determined as we all are, there are still only so many hours in a day and so many thoughts that can be exchanged before we began looking like crack-pot conspiracy theorists, complete with dozens of articles, push-pins, lines of marker, and red cord fraying worse than our grasp of functional reality strung up on the wall…and that was at the start of the term.

I must have been dreaming that we passed. Of course, we’d have passed even if the rest of the group had just eaten the textbook and vomited into a presentation folder for their parts of the assignment, or ground up and snorted broken Tinglepedia links so they could hallucinate their research. Instead, surprisingly, they all worked as hard as I did, and we ended up helping create something that the Journal of Hylian Aetherial Correspondence thought good enough to print with a little editing.

Is…that why I’m here? It can’t be. It _was_ published. I remember _that_, though the less said about the after-party, the better. What happens in the Aethero-Synthetics Research Laboratory _stays_ in the Aethero-Synthetics Research Laboratory.

Even more rewarding than our paper being published – under our professor’s name of course – was the discussion with people that had the same mindset. Experimentation with a group that knew what the fuck they were doing. People with goals and dreams that made any off-topic chatter not seem quite as inane or petty. Who didn’t care about my red eyes, or her religiously-mandated clothes, or his emotional support Remlit, or how we got there. Long nights and early mornings of discussions, coffee, camaraderie, and a shared goal to work towards.

It was…fun.

It also happened a year and a half ago, and Boo’s dorm floor was harder than whatever it is I’m lying on, though her bed was softer. Cooler. I _remember_, ergo, it happened in the past. A lifetime ago. I shouldn’t be dreaming of her…except I saw her again. Just before she interwove my _saithr_ strands with a kind of magic older than logic and sent me Farore knows where. It was fucking hot. Still is. I can feel my balls marinating in what I hope to Din is nothing more than my own damn sweat. How delightful.

I think I passed out.

“Sheik!” That would be panic. Panic plus Nabooru equals something too strange for my usual daytime nightmares, and I roll over with a grunt to get my knees under me and find my bearings, if not my marbles. Those are long gone. I’ve still got my backpack on, and end up rolling into the _heavily deteriorated _terminus platform, making handfuls of warm sand slide from my braided and bound hair down the collar of my jacket and into my shirt, sticking to my skin and already itching.

What a _great_ fucking start. At least we made the transition, and we’re not dead yet. The wall is hand hewn rock, the stairs irregular bricks. It’s still absolutely ri-cock-ulously hot enough that I should have soaked my clothes with sweat, but it’s evaporating faster than I can produce it in a fine mist that looks like steam. Or smoke.

Please don’t let it be hot enough for me to go from metaphorically to literally flaming. My life’s enough of a tire fire already, and that’s not how I prefer to get baked. Not that I want to get baked right now either, especially with memories of the Aethero-Synthetics lab party on the edge of my mind, but…options.

“Sheik!” Nabooru’s shout is nearly drown out by the grating shriek of metal on metal, and I glance up just in time to catch a face full of sand when it’s kicked up as she whirls in place, striking the air where the Poe’s lantern was and missing the Poe entirely. “Get up and help!”

This one is just an imp – though no less deadly for it – and it isn’t after _her_. She’s just put herself in the way of its true goal. Rubbing the grit from my eye means I have only the marked one to track its movements with, and the lack of depth perception really fucks with my ability to get a good idea of the Poe’s size, speed, and motions since I only have Nabooru for a reference point as to the proportions of the cavern in relation to my position.

On my knees, half-blinded, and not dead due to my own utter incompetence at literally everything, which is a great place to be. Dying’s _easy_, and I couldn’t even manage that much. Living is what’s hard. The imp probably wouldn’t mind giving me a hand, since my very existence is what roused it from torpor and drew it to this place. It’d be so easy to just let that eldritch scythe reap its reward...

…nope. On second thought, finger-fuck that with untrimmed nails and a dry cuticle or two. I _made_ my choice. My death will be my _own_, and no centuries old impish iteration of Malice can take that from me. It’s not even strong enough to be _corporeal_. Like _fuck_ I’d give it the satisfaction of having my magic in its gullet and my blood on its blade. Not when my own blades deserve it more. Not when Nabooru needs help. Not when Princess Tetra is still M.I.A. and the entire OPSEC is compromised. Especially not when my Tears of Light _burn_. I may not be Link’s Sheik anymore, but The Goddesses’ Trials continue to bind us together beyond mortal constraints.

He needs me. He’s _calling_ for me. North, north-west. _Still_. Despite everything.

How depressing that _I_ am the best the Hundred Little Gods have to offer him.

Do _better_, Kaya. Better’s the only option you have left.

With my skin as dry as it is, I barely have to scrape my teeth across my lips to get them bleeding, the copper-salty flavor thicker than water as it fills my mouth and I stand. Wobble. Find my centers. Right fist skyward, high as I can. Din. Sword palm across, don’t fall over. Farore. Shield hand back, you can do it. Nayru. Open. Ask. In. Receive. Hylia. Build intention. Find balance, with a little help from the Fierce Deity. I have no circle – no other Sheikah here with me to help – but Nabooru’s inspirational non-orthopraxy reminded me that I do have what counts, and I apply it directly to my target.

Binding it with the blood of my people, spit directly into the imp’s face as it cackles. Trapping it in place as it has trapped itself in the Mortal Realm. There’s no Witchfinder here to call down the punishment of Hylia’s deranged fan-club on my head for this, so I reach out. Bring it close. Embrace. Understand. Learn of the regret keeping it here. Take it in for the gathering. The weaving. The binding. The sealing. Feel its small head rest on my shoulder as the stitches blinding it dissolve, its tears frigid and forgotten, but free. At last. After _so long_.

Raise my arms to support it in these final moments before it finds peace, and have them close on nothing. The lantern falls to the sand at my feet and, in a brilliant flash of richest wine and lavender, collapses in on itself, leaving behind a single softly luminescent Spirit Orb in its place. A pearl of pure, golden gratitude, dormant on the sand.

At least it’s useable like this, so I won’t need to neutralize it first, though I will honor its regrets if I am able. I will. The bead is cool in my hand, and I tuck it away to be strung up later with the rest.

“Is it wrong of me to tell you that I think that was fucking hot?” Nabooru asks with a grin as she fans herself with the hand not holding the bared scimitar, still breathing deeply. “I mean, are you absolutely _sure_ you aren’t even curious? I’d make sure you felt good.”

“Boo…” I groan, and have to sit before my knees decide that they’re a ghost that has to be given up as well. Blink rapidly to get more sand out of my eye. “…don’t be a dick.”

“Isn’t a dick the very first thing on you go for?” She smirks, and I can’t help but laugh. It’s a little hysterical, and definitely too loud, making her look at me like she’s finally realized how much of a walking disaster I actually am. I should probably stop, but can’t really bring myself to care enough to try. It’s been less than ten minutes of interaction since we’ve reconnected and I’m already incapable of hiding my crazy. At least she knows what she’s gotten herself into by hanging around.

Lying back down is nice. It’s been a long time since Link pounded me into relaxing as well as the warm shifting sand beneath my back can manage just by being there. Supporting me.

Sand. Hot. Poe. Sun’s still rising. Fuck.

“We’re in the Desert, aren’t we?” We have to be. Somewhere.

“_Diyosa o tama kamita_, about an hour’s ride from Sabak, yeah.” Nabooru admits, and I close my eyes. I know _of_ Sabak – in that it exists somewhere in the back of my head as being a city, and there’s something important about it – but not much more than that, and my smattering of Gerudo is strictly conversational and gender neutral. Or subsumed in theoretical warding sigils and electrical interference arrays, which aren’t exactly useful right now.

“…the correct palm of what?” I think I have the grammatical order down, and the appropriate level of honorifics with that double ‘ah’ occurring twice in the feminine gendered nouns, but...

“The Right Hand of the Goddess.” She takes pity on the single functional brain cell bouncing around my struggling brain and translates directly, correcting my approximations at the same time.

“…which?” I could really use a good meditation and dose of Nayru’s Blessing right now, though explosively shitting in Majora’s offering bowl after way too much tequila would work, too.

“Of the Sand, obviously.” Nabooru snorts, and bends to take my hands in her own, tugging me to sit up and stare at her crouched form, jeweled doctoral headpiece and all. Somehow, I can’t bring myself to meet her eyes. “Can you stand? We need to catch up to that impatient Hylian that you smell like and _vaiba_ said needed to be here before he gets too far off course.”

“Link.” I breathe. He was here. He was _here_ and must have gone into the desert to find Princess Tetra immediately, and I just fucking _fainted_. Kaya, you useless _idiot_.

I thought I cried myself out on the rooftop enough to last me for the next decade.

Nabooru shifts uncomfortably close, knees on either side of my hips, arms rising to wrap around my shoulders, and squishes my face against her tits, holding me against her much larger and stronger body. Instant boob-kakke. Held tight. Enclosed. I inhale sharply, but manage through the strength of my startle reflex to not hyperventilate or hit her so I can get away. I _know_ she’s just trying to help. It’s _not_ helping. Not helping _at all_. I can feel my back tensing up again and the hair on my neck rising as my heart speeds up and I choke, jerking in place.

She’s tall enough that sitting back on her heels has her straddling my ankles so I’m not trapped by her weight or so fucking close to being smothered by her chesticles. Objectively, they’re…nice? Perky. Even. Warm. Soft. Not as nicely rounded as Lady Malon’s, but about evenly covered, even if Boo’s are directly in front of my face. Not that they do anything for me. She could strip down and give me a lap dance and I wouldn’t fucking care.

Goddess, I’m so fucking violet. Or traumatized. Probably both.

“Guess I need to unlock a higher level of friendship, huh?” She huffs out the rhetorical question and pats my head like a child before following it up with a real one. “So let me get this straight. You’re overheating, lost, in love with the Princess’ fiancée, starving, exhausted, and still unaffected by my objectively fabulous rack. Any other issues I should know about before we go, or do you want to keep it a surprise?”

“I’ve got more issues than an airport magazine stand, Boo. You know that.” I sniff, and one finger with an incredibly long, painted, _sharp_ nail wipes the last remains of my short outburst from the unmarked side of my face. I can’t help but shudder, but she remembers, and so doesn’t take any kind of offense.

It’s not her, it’s me.

It’s always me.

“Preserve your precious liquids, _nerhid_.” She chastises me, and stands. “Seriously though, can you Call your Shadows, or do we need to wait for sunset? I don’t want you fainting again.”

“Passing out, thank you.” I didn’t _faint_, I was merely overwhelmed by rapid local environmental changes. Going from cold rain to hot, dry air is not only causing me to produce my own humidity, but is making my balls stick to my thigh and I don’t have anywhere to adjust them when my anxiety has seen to it that they’re nearly sucked back up to pre-pubescent levels. The less said about what’s happening beneath my wrappings – especially what’s happening to my _hair_ – the better. I’m going to have to comb out more kinks than the dark side of the internet could even _name_.

“Bruh. The first thing I saw after coalescing here was you flat on your back on the floor. Arms at your sides, legs straight, spine aligned. Even half-dead, you managed to execute a perfect _faint_ to attention, you damn over-achiever.” Folding her arms, she’s careful not to look at me at all as I attempt to stand up, and waits for me to find my balance before asking again. “Now, can you cast your Shadows?”

“Only if you want every Poe in the area to swarm us like ants swarm an open honey pot.” I admit.

“Poe?” She asks, and I guess it’s my turn to explain the results of centuries – maybe millennia – of hate and fear and bigotry that is my people’s legacy in this particular stretch of the desert sands, beyond the tribal clashes over territory at the highland border around the bottle-neck that is Karusa Valley.

All the generations – _kilometers _– of unidentified, sun-bleached bones buried beneath the sands, their names and numbers scoured from the written record and then concealed by our Hylian overlords under pain of suffering the same. And I get to do it all in nice bite sized easy to swallow pieces that I don’t have to move to deliver.

Everyone knows about the Yiga clan defection. The incursions, the war, the last Calamity, its end, and how the last individual Chieftain of the Gerudo was a literal pubescent child when the treaties were signed. By comparison, most of Hyrule couldn’t care less about the Arbiter’s Grounds or the Haunted Wasteland. It’s relatively recent history of a Hyrulean Hero versus ancient history of the Royal Family’s blackest sins.

Three guesses what gets taught in the history books, and what is glossed over…if it’s mentioned in them at all. I wonder if that’s when they started to give us their numbers and deny us our names? Our language? Our culture? When they corralled us like animals and led us to the slaughter. The _massacre_. I…have no idea why I’m thinking of this when…oh.

Well…finding the imp’s regret was surprisingly easy. Easing it…not so much. Not when my people are still scattered to the four winds, our ancestral homes nothing more than underfunded heritage sites. I can, at least, answer Nabooru’s query, even if I can’t help the imp’s lingering regrets find peace.

“The forgotten and disrespected dead. They carry lanterns to try and find their way, but have been blinded and only end up leading others to their doom.” I’m proud of how steady my voice is rasping that much out.

“The _ghini_? Why would they…oh. _Oh_. Shit, why didn’t you say something?” She frowns, looking towards the opening of our little carved cavern and at the shifting sands beyond. I just raise an eyebrow on a specific side of my face that she herself mentioned was redundant and wait for the wince. “Uh…right. Sorry.”

“They’ll be coming anyway.” I shrug, reminding myself that wearing a jacket in this heat is almost as fucking stupid as lying on a cement rooftop in a spring rainstorm practically naked, as long as everything else is taken out of the equation. I have to peel it off where my sweat has adhered the fabric to my skin, and my Tears of Light pulse in time with Link’s heart. Slow and steady, no longer burning or pulling. He’s okay then, at least for the moment. “What’s the terrain like?”

“It’s _sandy_, _nerhid_.” She grins, and I groan. “Loose sand, easily moved. Ideal for sand seals, not so great for bipeds, though the Zuna do okay. Interesting for Rito, difficult for Gorons, and an absolute travesty for Zora. Lots of sand, next to no shelter, though the Lines of Sabak are built on the natural hard-packed desert pavement beneath.” She reminds me why I know the name of the city.

Nothing like simplified Runes – that won’t be adversely affected by shifting sand, sunlight, or storms – scratched out over kilometers of land to fuel your defensive wards with every single living thing that dares to tread upon them. Most people wouldn’t even notice the draw, but…if I have to maintain a fully drawn Shadow so I don’t get cooked alive AND fight off anywhere from two or three to a full lament of Poes, things might get sticky.

Stickier than my sweat saturated pants, still stained with blood and vomit. At least they’ve _technically_ been washed since I had my last liquid scream. In the rain. Without soap. Maybe, if I took them off and set them aside, they wouldn’t be able to stand up by themselves. Maybe.

After a breath to steady my nerves and my legs, I try standing before walking, doing so on a level-ish surface before attempting the stairs, and join Nabooru by the entrance of the cavern to look around the expanse of dessert surrounding us. If the city I can see to the north-west is Sabak, then Arbiter’s Grounds would be…yup. Poes. Five of them, and two Gibdos besides. Already. The first are the fastest, and will be here in a few minutes, while the Gibdos will take hours…but won’t stop for anything. Unless we don’t actually need to be in the city to activate the Lines…provided they work on monsters not seen since the last Sheikah was banished from the province.

Technically, those wards and laws were for the Yiga…and the Loyalist Sheikah agreed to abide by them. Not that Bloodwards can distinguish between philosophy and genetics. Not that getting rid of my people got rid of the monsters, but distinguishing correlation and causation is still beyond a fair number of internet experts and television talk-show hosts.

I refuse to call the Keaton Report ‘_news’_. Fascist cult-based propaganda is more truthful, at least if we’re following Hassan’s B.I.T.E. model definitions.

Din fucking damn it, my former _domine_ had better appreciate the shit I’m facing for his sake. It’d be so much easier if I could just call on my Gift from the Three and nope the fuck out of here. Instead, I take the bead from my pocket that the poor Poe that never had a name left behind, carefully – reverently – tap into that pure gratitude, and steel myself for what is to come. Soon. Or sooner. It depends on which irrelevant option I select since my character’s stats are solidly locked in.

It’s not like the Witchfinders can burn me any more than the noon-day sun of the desert will if I don’t. Blinking what I hope is the last of the grit from my eye, I pick soon instead of sooner, and extend my unregulated Shadow outward not only to conceal, but to protect my skinny spook ass from the harshest natural light this side of the ionosphere.

I’m not expecting the sand to shatter.

I didn’t know sand _could_! Before I can understand what the shifting beneath my feet means, Nabooru grabs me by the backpack and pulls – _hard _– against both my weight and the gravity that takes half the side of the hill down in a rumbling wave to spread out over the desert floor. The platform of stone on which she steadies us both while the ground shakes and shivers stays remarkably stable, though she doesn’t let go of me once it’s stopped.

“By the Seven…” She hisses out, and tugs sharply on my backpack. “Stay here. _Don’t_ touch _anything_.” Even if it weren’t an order coming from the person that just saved me from a death fit to match Eran’s, my legs won’t let me move anyway. On a scale of one to _holy fuck_, being in the center of a sand-slide would have to be closing in on the first Zelda finding a mortal guy to ensure that there’d be a second Zelda when needed.

Can’t have a holier fuck than being a Goddess’s booty call, after all.

I’m just thankful that blood and puke are _all_ that’s staining my pants…although not really eating probably has more to do with that than any sort of voluntary control on my part.

As my former classmate and currently alive companion carefully tests the much shallower inclined slope where the steep stairs used to be, I test the stone beneath my feet for a good place to sit and/or have a mild panic attack, and pause. Look slightly closer. Kneel. Brush some of the disturbed sand away.

Scoop it up in handfuls as a pattern emerges beneath my now scraped and steaming palms.

Stand up to get a better perspective, and confirm.

It truly _is_ the right hand of the Goddess of the Sand. Literally, not metaphorically. The opening of the transference cavern leads out onto sculpted stone in the shape of a fucking hand. Four fingers and a thumb the size of a fully grown adult Gerudo lady. Flat, open palm facing upward. Seeking to receive, pleading, or a gesture of giving, depending on the position of the other hand still buried somewhere under the shifting dunes and if the ancient sculptors followed the same symbolic conventions as modern mages…because this is _old_.

Stepping out of the carved pathway, wrapping myself in the thickest Shadow I can and damn the consequences, I scan the horizon for the Poes, Gibdo, Anubi – and anything else that might be grumpier than Kahti is on a Sunsday morning if he forgets to turn off his alarm – as quickly as possible before kneeling in the center of the Goddess’ palm. I _was_ hoping for a blessing, and showing respect never hurts unless the one being respected demands more than just respect. I usually don’t have more than that to give, anyway.

Here – being male and violet and spook as fuck – I dare not _ask_ Her for anything, simply honor the Goddess this shrine…no, this _Temple – _and holy _shit_ that’s a massive set of gold-plated naughty-pillows – was built to honor. I don’t recognize any of the iconography – Saints and Sages, Her nipples are _literally_ as hard as diamonds because they’re literally diamonds, _ha_ – or script, though it has to be at least as old as the transference pads. Those were Ancient Hylian cuneiform, and this is much more sinuous and elegant than the simple, rough lines there. I _think_ it’s all Ancient Gerudo. Maybe the precursor to it. Older than anything I recognize, anyway.

The fact it’s still here after so many thousands of years is incredible. Link would…would really like to be here. Now. To see this, and learn of the stories it could tell.

My fault.

I stare at the uncovered monument and try to memorize as many details as I possibly can in order to describe it to him if I get the chance. Draw it, even. Take a few pictures on my phone that don’t do the perspective, detail, or scale any justice at all. Go back to staring. I stare for a long time.

When Nabooru returns – climbing up the dune like it’s a stroll through the Queen’s pleasure gardens – I rise and follow without protest. My body is doing enough protesting on its own without bothering her as well, and I know she’s worried. Even if I couldn’t see the blotchy sepia patina she’s got going on, she’s hovering uncomfortably close as we meander down the Lines of Sabak towards the city proper. Possibly over my wavering, but more likely that I’ll have a psychotic break and stab her in the back if she walks in front.

I want to tell her that’d be too much effort – that aiming for the kidney is more effective because, y’know, ribs – but it’s all I can do to keep going. Keep my Shadows up. Keep _myself_ up. Mostly. Sometimes I have to stop just to keep standing. Drink. We pass twinned sets of trail-markers guiding the way that are exactly the kind of stiff pole I need right now, and she lets me rest a bit longer at the sixth. Mutters something I don’t catch. Paces around in dizzying circles, making the world spin.

I just…need to sit for a bit, and then we can keep going. Catch up to Link, so I can yell at him for pushing on ahead instead of waiting for Nabooru to guide us. Just need to close my eyes for a second…

When I wake up, it’s déjà vu all over again. My skin is tight. Warm. I’m in an unfamiliar bed, and naked as the day I was born plus about two fifty-ish grams of hair... unbraided, and slightly damp. I’m not…sore…but that means nothing. Not when there’s a vial of red potion on the bedside table next to a pitcher of some sort of fruity orange drink. Smells sweet. Feels cool. Tastes better than the yogurt smoothie from the campus food court did. More herbaceous and citrus-y, less of that artificial sweet and chemical tang.

The air itself is awash with sandstone progression, and it takes me two full mugs of the juice to process what I’m seeing. It’s not the desert colors themselves, but the people and their overtones that dye my perspective with cautious optimism and celebration. As though this is where hopes comes to be realized…and there’s only one thing that the Gerudo as a people hope for so pervasively so as to stain the walls with it.

Children. Strong children. According to their legends, the taboo over male children was broken at the end of the last Era, so what constitutes “strong” is different than what Hylians or Humans associate with the word…and I’m a prime candidate for passing on a number of those traits. With logic being what it is – though it’s said jokingly and without any real intent _now_ – I _know_ Nabooru wants children.

I just don’t know how badly. Or if she’s dating anyone. Or where her morals stand when it comes to dealing with an unlicensed whore like me. She’s never pushed beyond the a-little-too-aggressive teasing and one notable drunken declaration, but what happens at the Aethero-Synthetics Research Lab stays at the Aethero-Synthetics Research Lab for a reason.

If I _was_ used to sire a child, there’s nothing that I can do about it, now. Since there isn’t a stud fee next to the potion and beverage, I have to assume – hope – not, especially since there are nine other twin beds for Gerudo-sized people in the room, and none of them are occupied. Half of them aren’t made, the mattresses still wrapped for transport. All of them have trunks at the foot, and that much is more reassuring than the vaguely unsettling sense of familiarity I have walking up naked and confused after being alone with Nabooru.

Which is super fucked up, when you think about it.

Almost as fucked up as Mr. Derorin’s Boy’s teeth, and, despite my best restorative weavings, my ass _still _aches from the soda-can cock on that inbred pile of repurposed warehouse bricks.

Focus, Kaya. Barracks. It looks like a barracks. Almost.

Oh, sure, it’s been a fucking lifetime since the Training Hall, and the form of the furniture and linens is decidedly Gerudo in nature, but there are only so many ways you can stack people of insignificant rank before efficient design trumps artistic vision.

This place is…very efficient. The bars over the window and door are some of the most effective I’ve seen, and I was in a holding cell less than a month ago. There isn’t much else to look at, though the chamber pots beneath the beds make me regret drinking the pitcher down to the dregs. The dregs are where my magic lays. My body, too. Exhausted. I should probably be hungry, but the simple act of sitting up, drinking both the beverage and the potion, and finding out where the fuck I am has left me too tired to do anything but lie back down again and sleep. Hard. For I don’t know how long.

All I know is that when I do wake up, I’m no longer alone.

“…be fine. Really.”

“Shouldn’t he be awake by now?”

“Soon, yes. Give him time, love.”

“I can’t. I’m going to be late if I don’t get going now.”

“Alright. I’ll tell him you said hi.”

“He doesn’t even know who I am, silly.”

“I’ll tell him the best wife in the world said hi, then.”

“That’ll be just fine. Do you want me to send anyone up?”

“Mistress Nabooru, please. And perhaps her H…helper, if she’s available. I may need some assistance.”

“You’ll be fine. I’ll see you later.”

“Thank-you Reli.”

“Bye-bye Tye-Tye.”

“Bye-bye.”

Two voices – male and female – producing treacle. Pure, clean, sweet treacle, making my teeth itch…or that could simply be that I itch all over, and ache in a way that tells me I haven’t moved in far too long. Not that I have reason to move. Not when I could go back to sleep. Return to the dreamless, painless, hopeless darkness of un-being where even the fucking itching cannot touch me, and moving doesn’t hurt.

I’m no thespian Prince – to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune _or_ to take up arms against them – but I do know someone who would. Who _has_. A Knight who will become a Prince, when he marries his lady love, who is an honest to goodness Princess, next in line for the throne.

The instinctive grasping at my end of the Bond doesn’t hurt any less than it did last time, Din dammit. I’ve got no idea where the handsome asshole _is_…but I can make an educated guess as to where he _will_ _be_, and plan backwards from there. Later. Now, sleep seems determined to drag me back to its secret lair, and I would willingly follow if it weren’t for the brightness beyond my eyelids and the fact I am no longer alone. No longer safe to rest, no matter how badly I want to.

“I know you’re awake.” The male voice says as I contemplate rolling over and pulling the thin blanket on my chest up over my head to block out more of the light and in the vague hope my surprise roommate takes the fucking hint. I’m just so very, very…_tired_.

Depressed might be a better word for it, but that seems so cold and clinical and remote from the all-inclusive back-stage pass experience that I’m having. I blame Link. He’s the one that bolstered me with enough hope that I had somewhere to sink down to in the first place.

“If you’d like, there’s a bath waiting just down the hall.” The passive nature of my roommate’s words are somehow stranger to me than his voice as he leads me right into temptation…the Goddess-damned freelancing cucco wanker. Out of _all _the things to prod me with, he had to pick _that_. Screaming into the over starched pillowcase might help.

Nope. No such luck.

“Is that a yes?” He laughs, and I turn my best fuck-you glare to a medium-high setting as I roll to get my first glimpse of him. His skin is a few shades darker than my own, with the dark, wavy hair, thin nose, thick eyebrows, and weak chin of the people of the Faron region. Warm sangria eyes. Amusement underlying concern and thick rippling exhaustion. Hunger. I know those colors damn well. Almost as well as the loose skin and pallor that comes from that hunger being a recent and pervasive development.

I know the patterns those colors come in, too, and end up simply staring for a lot longer than propriety can excuse. For the first time in fifteen fucking years, I get to see as he stands, the way he leans his shield against his bed, how he moves, the grace with which he crouches next to where I lay. The sorrow in his expression even as he smiles. The adult form of the child I once knew. First Regan – and I half-expected to encounter Yeran because of that, what with the twin thing and all – but now…fuck. What did I do to deserve so much of Majora’s notice?

“Permission to touch?” He asks. Just like Mrs. Marie would ask before helping us to hold a paint-brush properly, or Mr. Russell teaching us how to hold and move with a sword. Daggers, really, since we were so small, but the principles were the same. Asks as though I am still the naïve little kid that I was when last we saw each other.

I’m not.

I haven’t been a child for a long, long time.

“Fuck off, Tye.” I rasp, and have to close my eyes against how big he’s gotten. Taller than Link by a good hand, with the same kind of lean strength as my errant Master. The eldest of Eran’s _esclavin_, and our de-facto big brother…until he was gone from the Training Hall and all of our lives, never to be spoken of again. Spoken _to_ only in the Gossip. I think we were nine the last time I saw him, but his patterns haven’t changed that much in the intervening years. “I can do it myself.” Except gotten bigger. Much bigger. More complex. Better…better than I am, exactly like the only _other_ one of my _konlega_ I’ve met since…leaving the Royal Family’s employ.

Two and oh isn’t that great a starting point, Kaya.

Sitting up takes all of my concentration and effort and is only managed with badly shaking limbs and vertigo, so by the time I can focus on him again if my surly response put any damper on his spirit, I can’t find any evidence. He simply watches me, offering a hand as I stand. Or attempt to. Fail as miserably as I failed Eran. Failed Link. Failed the rest of my brothers-in-spirit. Including Regan. And Yeran. Rozel, Cloyne, Sebasto, Zuta, Armes. Failed Tye himself. Everyone.

I was supposed to be the best of us all, and I can’t even stand on my own.

“Hey, Captain. Sorelia said you needed me?” Of course Nabooru’s timing is perfect, and of course she doesn’t knock. Not that you can really knock on a door that consists of thick steel bars set in stone and plaster walls. Tye lets me pretend that sitting back on the bed is what I intended to do in the first place, and moves to put himself between us. Shielding me from her, as if he thinks she’s a threat to me. Or him. Or both of us. Saints and Sages, what’s the worst that could happen that hasn’t already?

No, wait. Don’t answer that. Shit, _please_ don’t answer that.

I just want a damn bath, or more sleep. Or both. Maybe slip into something a little more comfortable, like a coma.

“Yes, Mistress Nabooru. You asked to be informed when Sheik Lurelin woke. As you can see, he is awake, though it may be a while before he is presentable and ready to take visitors.”

“Ah, we’re old friends, Captain.” Nabooru waves off his formalities, and smirks. “_Good_ friends. In fact, I’m probably the best friend he has here, right nerd?”

She’s…not wrong.

“Good morning to you too, Boo. How’s the weather up there?” I snort, and she cackles like the witch I’ve been accused of being. Have been, really, over the last few days, what with ignoring my converter, repeatedly drawing directly on my Shadows, creating and using dozens of Spirit Orbs without going through the proper rituals and channels, and then putting the Poe to rest. Din-diddly-ding-dong-damn it.

Strange, though, that the warding system inherent in the Lines of Sabak hasn’t smote me into the finest spook-liver pate where I sit. It’s almost as if Shadow magic isn’t dangerous in and of itself, and it’s only prejudice that makes it anathema. Imagine that. What a stunning revelation. Pardon me while I faint from the shocking conclusion to our newest rendition of the top ten no-fucking-shit list.

My regular shit-list is reserved for a more select crowd.

“It’s nearly dinner time, sleepy-head.” She chortles, wiping imaginary tears from her eyes. “The Captain here can help you get ready, and then you should _really_ come and join us.”

“I…” Don't wanna. At all.

“_Really_.” She insists, all traces of mirth gone, and I see Tye nodding out of the corner of my eye.

“Fine.” I sigh, and resist pouting about it.

If nothing else, judging by how I smell – and I smell like a teenage boy after an unventilated record-breaking wank session – I can only pray that getting ready means I’ll get my fucking bath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN/RANT
> 
> Note - The Desert of Doubt in Four Swords Adventures is named Ayashi no Sabaku in Japanese, so I am only PARTIALLY pulling a location out of my ass.
> 
> RANT
> 
> So. Uh. I know that Gerudo in OoT’s adult portion are supposed to represent sexuality and all, and the rest of the games that have had Gerudo in them have to, by necessity, pull from that baseline…but the fetishizing, orientalism, and logic-crushing portrayal of what is supposedly a warrior people of the desert is absolutely baffling to me (death by exposure, anyone? Heels for walking on sand and fighting battles? Really?!!!). I have to keep SOME of the design and culture decisions Nintendo made just so I can actually call this a modern AU, but everything I CAN change to make some things even halfway plausible, I will.
> 
> While I’m at it…yes, yes, I know that the portrayal of non-heteronormative gender expression and relationships within the Zelda series is also hella problematic, but I think that this story up until now has taken care of at least SOME of that quite nicely, and will continue to do so at every opportunity possible. I’ve limited myself somewhat by having both of my main characters self-identify as male (though what masculinity means to each of them is a WHOLE ‘NOTHER rant) but fully intend to pass the Bechdel-Wallace test at some point…because I haven’t, yet, and I’m mostly done the second part of this story.
> 
> That doesn’t mean I intend to move away from Link and Sheik’s POVs. This IS a character-development driven narrative, after all. It just means that, as a human being with a human brain depicting two different individual’s thought processes while juggling their mental, emotional, spiritual, cultural, sexual, linguistic and personal growth in a period of massive upheaval doesn’t give me much room to work without dropping the ball.
> 
> This is why Crumbs exists. Well, one of the reasons. The other reason is smut. Please enjoy, continue to read, comment, and kudos as you see fit, and ignore the faint and muffled sounds of my tortured screaming in the background.


	26. Rules and Regulations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Link is lost, alone, isolated, without resources or allies, and it's his own damn fault, but he's trying his best...and getting a taste of what life is like without the privilege he was born into.  
He doesn't like it, much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: angst  
CW: semi-public nudity, culture-shock, discomfort, loneliness, Link "swearing"...kind of.
> 
> FC - 0   
Link is such a good boy. Sheik will definitely make up for the deficiency, later.

Slightly awkward formatting key that will continue for the next few chapters. Aside from the words spoken in Gerudo that will remain in Gerudo and are based off of BOTW's confirmed spoken Gerudo, to show progress (and how smart our handsome dumbass actually is) ;

_“Gerudo Link Understands”_

_“ _{Gerudo Link Does NOT Understand}“

There is only one line this chapter, but chapter 28 and beyond(?) will have more.

That’s not right. It can’t be.

There must be something in my tone that he hears, or something in my posture he sees, because my red-robed companion tilts his head to the side and hums, but does not retract his statement or retreat physically like he did at the slightest sign of aggression from the two women…but he doesn’t say anything more.

“That’s not right.” Hypocritical as it is of me to say it – what with wanting Kaya’s Bond returned to me mere minutes ago – I can’t stay quiet. Hypothetical benefits aside – _tangible_ benefits aside – my morals won’t let me ignore the damage the Bond has done to him solely to the benefit of someone else. There’s a _reason_ I wanted it broken in the first place. If I think that coercion is wrong, then owning someone else is _really_ _wrong_.

“I am error? Ah, no. Sorry. I am mistaken?” He corrects himself, questioning, and letting me know that no matter how well he speaks, his accent isn’t just the Gerudo dialect, but a result of Modern Hyrulean not being his first language.

“You can’t own another person.” I clarify, rather insistently, and he nods, laughing.

“No, you cannot! But you can purchase their debt, and that is what Mistress Barriara has done. Mistress Shabonne reclaimed your debt for her house, though with the Amber you have, it should not take you long to repay her. Three or four hunts, for a warrior of your skill.”

“What debt?” Is it the medical care? The transportation? The drink? The clothing? Not that _any _of those things matter. “How much do I owe?” I’ll just pay the fees now and explain to Telma and my father later…except that, when I reach for my wallet, I touch skin. No wallet. No credit or debit cards. No identification. I didn’t even install my e-wallet on my loaner phone, but that’s gone too. I don’t even have _clothes_…at least, none that I know how to wear, and somehow I don’t think wandering around naked will get me anything aside from an unfortunate sunburn and possibly some unwanted admirers.

“Here.” The receipt he pulls from a pouch on his hip is folded over itself repeatedly, and I can’t read anything but the numbers. A quick tally confirms there is no mistake in the final sum, though the itemized list seems more than a little excessive. Then he scratches out the ninth line and replaces the text, but not the total of fifty rupees.

That must be how to spell both of the ladies’ names that he mentioned.

I…just need to talk to this Mistress Shabonne. Straighten things out with her so I can be free and go find Tetra. Simple and straightforward. Leaving Korokshire was to find Tetra. Hauling Sheik along with me was because he knew how to find Tetra. _Everything_ I’ve done since then has been for that one goal; to be by her side in her time of need, as she’s been there for me. Despite all the set-backs and unexpected steps in that process, I meant it when I said I would do anything. It appears it’s time to live up to my promises, even if they’re only between me and my conscience.

To that end, with my nameless guide’s assistance, I dress in the unfamiliar clothing. As soon as I am somewhat presentable, he brings me to another man – also covered in red – who leads me to traverse unfamiliar halls, wander unfamiliar streets, and pass unfamiliar people speaking an unfamiliar language. Even the buildings and streets are arranged in a way that’s both subtly and blatantly different from what I’m used to.

The streets are as wide as the ones I’m used to, but almost no cars move along them. Carts help carry goods, and Sand Seals pull both passengers and produce. The occasional motorcycle and car does pass us by, but they’re all clearly marked as emergency services or by businesses that rely on short delivery times…like an alchemist, an A.R.G. cruiser, and two separate medical transport companies.

The walk gives me time to notice other things, as well. Small gardens bloom inside of burbs and barriers, with larger fruit trees on the corners, and there isn’t a lawn to be seen. Or garbage bins. Or anything longer than an ambulance, which, given how short and angular the streets are, makes sense. Having to do a three-point or better turn every fifty to eighty meters would get old, quickly. Everything – from the storm drains to adobe walls to the curbs – is decorated in some way, meaning the city is covered with so much texture and pattern that I find it vaguely disorienting.

That includes the people. _Everyone_ is wearing both make-up _and_ multiple pieces of jewelry, making me feel like I’m horribly underdressed. Whatever the meaning behind the riot of colors of clothing, my plain black, baggy trousers and loose tunic have people clearing the way for me to pass where my red-robed guide has to push his way through.

All that means is I can keep up with him and gawk at the same time, which lets me puzzle out at least some of what I’m seeing. Those sitting beneath awnings with their goods or peddling their wares from behind formal stalls are all dressed in a pink so bright it’s nearly orange, so that one I can figure out easily. The rest take me a few more blocks and a little bit longer to understand.

Those wearing blue appear to be craftspeople, the shade of blue very different from the A.R.G. standard. Those in green are either hawking or hauling produce, and are probably farmers, but maybe cooks. There are some people in a light shade of purply-pink, and some in brown, and some in yellow and grey and white. Everyone wears multiple layers, with multiple adornments, making me stick out like a sore thumb. After a while, I gather that there is _another_ shade of blue, and the darker one is always worn by a weaver or jeweler or painter. Artists. I get a headache trying to parse overheard snippets of conversation in a language I don’t know at a brisk pace through the streets.

Very, _very_ few other people wear black. Far more wear a similar shade of red to what my guide has on, though a lot less of it than he has on. A lot less. Even I am substantially more covered than they are and I have nothing but a top, pants, and sandals. Not even underwear, which is both strangely uncomfortable and remarkably freeing. Neon signage with prices and performance times are the last clues I need to understand what the people in red are selling, and we move further on our way.

There are so many other colors, patterns, and different modes of dress that I can’t focus, and the meaning of what I can see isn’t immediately apparent, so I give up looking for anything that isn’t a familiar face in the space of only a few blocks. Castletown sized blocks, not the truncated ones weaving amidst each other here. At least, it feels like blocks. I can only estimate our distance travelled by approximating my steps and the occasional glimpse of a rail line behind one of the rows of tent-and-awning shops that we pass.

Our path opens onto a river of people, and I grab my guide’s cloak so as not too get lost as I gape at the sight. Bright lights, vendors and hawkers clapping to draw customers as they peddle their wares, scents of a hundred things blending in the air, and It’s later than I thought. Much later. The lights of the marketplace disguise how low the sun has sunk on the horizon, turning the sunset to gold. With the way the rest of my trip has gone, I can only hope I’ve lost hours and not days. Not again.

This time, though, there’s no one I can ask.

For all his seeming enthusiasm, my guide is not any better informed than I am, and simply shrugs when I ask anything outside of the scope of his vocabulary. It doesn’t keep me from asking questions, and he answers as best he can. I listen, and try to figure out how best to approach this Mistress Shabonne when I have the chance. Open and honest seems to be working for almost everyone around me, but I don’t know for certain.

My guide can identify items for sale, and seems to know what is priced well or poorly down to the last Rupee, but can’t tell me if haggling is considered crude, a fineable offense, or is expected. Can’t tell me the line between direct, blunt, and rude. I keep scanning the crowd for long dark strawberry-blonde or very long honey blond hair and sky-blue or blood-red eyes, listening for her lilt or his hum.

I find out a lot of things, but nothing that will do me any good beyond giving me something to do instead of break down or run off again. We’re going to the Coliseum. He – as well as his co-worker – work for Mistress Barriara. One of many freelance Subrosians in her employ, though he never expected she would call on either of them to translate for her directly. His spoken Hyrulean is better, his coworker has first-aid certification. They’re both accountants, and he is being paid handsomely to act outside the scope of his regular duties.

“Enough that I do not mind missing supper with my wife.” He grins when I ask for a specific figure. “Here, try this.” Deflecting my increasingly pointed questions easily, he tosses three green rupees – again, actual, real rupees and not the equivalent bills or coins – towards a vendor and takes two skewers of some kind of meat from beneath a heating-Rune before slathering both in a white sauce. “Whatever you have had, it will not be as good as Estan’s kebab!” He claims, and the merchant smiles at him before turning back to her cutting board.

“Thank you.” I nod to the vendor, and then to my guide. “It’s appreciated.” The scent I’ve been ignoring makes my belly roar now that I can do something about it. Regan’s soup barely lasted me to the Bokoblins on the way to the Seventh Heroine, and that was hours ago. Now, being presented with food, I don’t really consider all the things I was thinking about earlier. Rank, control, ethics, manners, language, social display…none of it. Now, I’m just _hungry_.

Taking the skewer from him carefully – the wooden ends still very warm – I do as he does, and bite into what I can only describe as sausage without the casing. Marinated in something slightly spicy, with the sauce providing just enough of a counter-point in both vinegar and fat to make his claim about these being the best kebab entirely believable. For a moment, nothing else exists aside from the taste dancing across my tongue and the emptiness in my belly. I practically inhale the rest the moment I get over my surprise, and break the wooden skewer into bits for kindling just like he did after sucking it clear of every last drop of flavor.

Then we’re off again, though without the last traces of the sun visible on the horizon, I can’t tell in what direction. With the singular task of talking to Mistress Shabonne and clearing up this whole mess on my mind, I’d like to get there faster. The faster I can do that, the sooner I can resume my search for my fiancée. His legs are longer than mine, but the crowd makes the going slow, and with my motivation, I have no trouble keeping pace. We do eventually cross some invisible boundary and leave the market, only to get on a train – he pays my fare – and it takes us on a thirty-seven minute trip to the very edges of the city.

The baggy folded trousers and loose tunic that were more than sufficient in the press of people in the early evening air amid cooking food and closed away from the elements are nowhere near enough to keep me from shivering the moment we leave the station, and the endless breeze coming from the quickly cooling dessert doesn’t help. The night is not yet as cold as the day was hot, but it’s only the beginning of the night.

“This is the Coliseum.” Waving his arm over the empty space in front of us, I follow his gaze instead of his words to the building across the carefully raked sand. It’s nearly the size of the Castletown Crusader’s stadium, and has a tower connected to the side that is almost half as large again. There’s loose sand on every side of the building itself – including between the station exit and the Coliseum itself - with regularly spaced posts and a trough between every four, just wide and long enough for a Sand Seal to roll in the dust.

I’ve been to enough games and concerts to know exactly what I’m looking at, despite not having seen a single personal vehicle since leaving the basement bathhouse where I woke up.

It’s a parking lot.

Suddenly the tower on the side makes a lot more sense, and as my guide rings the buzzer for the site manager I can hear the barking and growling of at least fifty Sand Seals inside what can only be a stable. The chatter of dozens of people a floor above comes through open windows clearly as he talks with the Gerudo lady at the security gate, though I can’t make out distinct words. Not that I could understand them even if I could, and I regret not taking Conversational Gerudo online with Malon when I had the chance. I thought I’d get more use out of having Conversational Holodrian at the time, but forgot to log in after the second lesson, and then just…didn’t.

The grammar’s mostly the same aside from Gerudo having gendered vowel pronunciations, and it seemed like everyone I would ever need to talk to already spoke Hyrulean, so I didn’t bother. That’s a mistake I intend to rectify immediately, hastened by the use of a slate that the guard has behind the counter and an internet password that adds another twenty rupees to my debt. She has to punch it in for me, and my guide helps me switch the language display before abandoning me to her tender mercies.

And they _are_ mercies. Delivered by pointing and miming as much as grunting and variations on a six word vocabulary shared between us, I’m escorted to a private room with a bed, dresser, desk, bookcase, and empty weapons rack, shown the closest toilet and shower, and left alone for the evening. I wander the hall and examine my immediate surroundings. Like the room she showed me, the other doors are all locked. My key only works on the one I was assigned. It’s the only one without a name tag in either slot of the plastic panel, so at least I can return there easily.

It’s small. There’s only one bulb in the overhead light, which means I have to sit on the foot of one of the two beds or the floor to make the most of it. Two beds. How are two people supposed to share this tiny space? I’m…not big for a Hylian, and the Gerudo are, comparatively, giants. There wasn’t a name tag aside from mine, yet even being in this room alone feels cramped.

Overwhelmed and exhausted, I don’t want to deal with yet another person that I can’t understand and who can’t understand me. Disoriented and frustrated, I want to be able to communicate. Figure out what’s happening around me, so I can respond appropriately instead of just react. Be independent, instead of follow strangers around like a lost puppy begging for treats.

I want Tetra. She always knows what to do. I suppose I do, too, really.

I need to learn Gerudo, at least conversationally.

Pulling out my borrowed slate, a quick search gives me some free online lessons, and I get to work. The first is easy. Hello, my name is. Yes. No. Thank you. Please. I am blank years old. One through one hundred. Repeat after me. We learned all this back in grade one, so it’s not completely unfamiliar, but I haven’t done a thing with it, since. Review. Next chapter. I make it through three lessons and am halfway done the fourth by the time fatigue sets in too heavily to be ignored. If I push, I know I won’t be able to remember any more words, or how to make even the simplest of sentences, and so I set the slate aside and lie down.

I’m still hungry, still cold. The sheets are itchy, the bed far too long and narrow. I haven’t slept on a twin size mattress since I was eight, though this is closer to a Hylian-sized double. Longer than I have any use for at all, thanks to the average Gerudo height. I haven’t slept _alone_ since Sheik let me take him home.

I want to _go_ _home_, want that comfortable familiarity. To dress myself in my own, _clean_ clothes. Eat Gillian’s cooking. Listen to Telma’s reports. Play with the kids. Work with the staff. Study at my own workstation. Sleep in my own bed. Get back to my normal routine, including my usual evening phone call before I sleep. The one I’ve had nearly every day since my mom died. The one that gives me pleasant dreams and restful nights, knowing that I’m loved. That someone cares.

Goddess, I want Tetra _so bad_.

Humming her favorite childhood lullaby doesn’t help me soothe myself enough to sleep when my breath keeps catching in my throat. Eventually I stop trying, realizing that I can remember the notes and ignore the hollow ache in my chest, and take comfort from that without having to force it out.

It’s been years since the last time I cried myself to sleep, and if I have dreams, I don’t remember them on waking. Instead something pounds against my door, yelling something – rather rude from the tone of it – that wasn’t in my lessons last night, and I have to take a moment to blink at the ceiling and contemplate the ache in my back before rolling over with a groan. Sitting up lets me put my head in my hands and breathe for a moment before the heavy-handed person on the other side of the door decides to hammer their fists against it again.

“_Sev’ott!” _They holler, and I know that much means ‘good morning’ with the emotional vowel inflection even as I try to memorize the stresses that a native speaker uses and they continue with a string of words that I _don’t_ know the meaning of. Cheerful enough, the greeting has me rising and trying to fix the waistband of my _sirwal_ before finding out what the next step in my unlooked for adventure will be.

Without breakfast. Or tea. Or even an introduction to my roommates. Hylians, each and every one, though they are all both taller and darker than I am from a lot of time spent in the sun. Older, too, for the most part, though one is around my age. All men. All wearing the same loose black trousers and tunics that I am, though _they_ all have some adornments as well. Teal and gold accents of both cloth and metal, whereas my clothes are unrelieved and comparatively stark.

The moment I leave my assigned room they turn as a group and head towards the elevator, keeping me encased with their bodies. I would have to push at least one out of the way to escape, though I don’t feel like I need to. Or have anywhere to go if I did.

I may as well follow along, at least for now, though I pay attention to the architecture and directions of every hall and room we pass through. The curving one is a ramp with a shallow incline, and wide enough for us to walk four abreast with the amount of room on the side. We emerge at ground level, and head down another hallway that’s twice as wide as the ramp.

“Where are we going?” Finding the courage to ask the question in Hyrulean, followed by a simpler “_Where?_” in Gerudo nets me a harshly whispered shushing. A single set of doors near the end of the hall seems to be where everyone is headed, so I have part of my answer. When the doors open, I don’t need to ask again.

I’ve been a student of Hylian Martial Arts since I was three and showed unusual dexterity and strength for a literal toddler, though calling it Martial Arts at that age is a bit of a misnomer. Structured physical exercise with some gymnastics and tumbling is more accurate. After high school, I’ve done my best to maintain my form, but quit actively pursuing higher levels of proficiency in favor of pursuing a degree and learning how to manage Korokshire on behalf of my perpetually absent father.

That doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten, or given it up entirely. I just haven’t participated in the competitiveness of it. The scents, sounds, and sight of a salle are as familiar as Tetra’s suite in Hyrule Castle. Even the strong, thickly muscled, brightly made up Gerudo lady carefully scanning the room like my mom once did aligns with my memories of younger days and…simpler times. Happier times.

I only have a few moments to acquaint myself with the desert version of a space that, to me, means structure and order and exertion and the straightforward _joy_ of purposeful movement. The thrill of challenging myself to move faster, harder, quicker, respond better, and continually improve. To strive to be my best self. A deeply mindful meditation in motion.

And this salle is beautiful. From the carefully sanded and varnished floor to the intricately patterned lattice in the open windows and the seven-domed ceiling, there’s beauty in the simplicity of the space. Precise, specific positions for every item and angle that have withstood the tests of time and trial despite careful embellishments and riotous color schemes.

Instead of lines woven into the fabric covering the mats that I remember, the interplay of light and shadow from the rising sun delineate clearly regimented ranks along carefully sanded and waxed planks. Ranks that are rapidly filled in a clear mustering for instruction. Instruction that I can’t follow. My Gerudo is _not_ up to the task, and the slate I borrowed is back on the bedside table where I can’t use _or_ return it. Fortunately, the same men that herded me to stand in the right place continue to bodily direct me once the drill sergeant is done yelling.

We’ve been assigned to practice our staff and pike work. With the wooden staves all designed for Gerudo, the one I’ve been handed is too long for me to wield properly, and it’s not my favorite weapon to use in the first place. I haven’t held one in years…but I have worked with and watched Sheik take down a Twilight Bloat with one, and recently at that.

Practice forms are forms for a reason, and targets – joints, organs, soft tissues – are targets, no matter what weapon is being wielded. A staff has longer reach than a sword, and no edge, and so I jab and twist and block and sweep in time with the men on either side of me, and learn what it actually sounds like to count to ten in Gerudo from a native speaker at the same time. The repetition makes remembering much easier.

I don’t learn what I have to do to leave, though, or how to speak with Mistress Shabonne, though my limited vocabulary probably has more to do with that than anything else. I listen to the tone and cadence and variations in pronunciation instead as I work though my right knee-sweep and block before returning to my place in the formation. There’s fear, and tension, and enough discussion that I don’t miss those tones at all, or the more subtle worry, determination, or disgust in the words surrounding a familiar name.

Agahnim. It’s a surprise to hear _that_ name being whispered this far from the capital, but not the general timbre it’s muttered in. Sentences with _that_ tone usually end in someone using a full title at court, or the word “bitch” in public, and so I listen closer to see if I can learn my first swear word as well as proper pronunciation of more polite language.

My current sparring partner notices, and tries to smack me in the shin while I’m distracted. He should be aiming for the knee, or the nerve. I correct the assumption that paying less attention means I’m not paying attention at all, and then show him the proper hit without actually connecting. Breaking formation. Moving ahead without the rest of the group. Interrupting the dance-like patterns of instruction, and drawing the ire of our instructor.

“Yah!” The shouted word has everyone stopping immediately, so my partner stumbling away from my staff is loud and obvious and – from the blush that spreads across his face – embarrassing. “Sa’iyo! Voe!” Striding across the sand on long legs propelled by thick thighs, the drill sergeant snatches the staff from my partner’s hands and salutes. “Maghanda!”

Then she shows me why she is in charge.

Staff. Longsword. Scimitar and shield. Sickle. Dagger. One right after the other as the rest of the people in black uniforms with teal and gold accents – though none have as many accents or as much presence as my sudden aggressor – stop their own training to watch her remind me that _how_ I correct mistakes is as important as correcting them in the first place. Not that I figure it out right away, too busy dodging blows that never quite connect at full force and scrambling to both keep my footing and not step outside the circle. Not after being dragged back to the center the first time my foot slipped over the edge.

I can hold my own with the longsword, and would have been able to defeat her with the scimitar and shield if I wasn’t still reeling from being utterly trounced with the staff and hungry to the point of lightheadedness. I’m lucky not to cut myself with the sickle, and end up dropping my daggers to grapple instead…which has her stepping back and snarling at me with such naked disgust that I pick them up and clean them off and step back into the center of the circle all on my own. Just so she can chase me around and _almost_ connect with at least a dozen disabling blows before I figure it out.

Humility.

This is _her_ territory. These are _her_ trainees, who will follow _her_ orders. I just wish I knew what they were, or what the addition of a beaded sash laid next to my _sirwal_ means when I heave myself from the after-work out bath. The scratches and bruises I had going in to the same kind of glowing blue water as the pool where I woke up have all disappeared, but none of the men I’ve been stuck with will talk. I rush to my room to look up half a dozen words and phrases on my borrowed Slate the moment we get back, and end up having to clean all the dishes after breakfast as punishment for failing inspection.

All of them.

I’m learning. It’s not what I want to be doing, that’s for bloody sure, but I understand why I’m being made to perform in a way that matches everyone around me. It’d be easier if I understood instructions the first time around, but I don’t dare protest. I can’t ask for any of the things I need if I can’t communicate with anyone, and I can’t communicate with anyone if by the time I learn enough of the language to do so, no one is willing to speak with me.

Thank Hylia that after the breakfast dishes are done, I’m dumped in a room with four other people, one teacher, and a textbook in Modern Hyrulean called _Gerudo for Busy People_. I finished the equivalent lessons one through three last night, and with help correcting my pronunciation, get most of the way through lessons four and five before our time is up and the other Hylian men return to drag me to the mess hall.

_It’nan._ Mess hall. That one is easy to remember, because it sounds kind of like “eating” with a thick accent and clipped consonants. Plus, I like eating, even if the food is comprised of wholly unfamiliar tastes and textures in strange portions. I like the curry-thing, am not fond of the bitter mushy squash-thing, and could happily have four times as many hydro-melon cubes in the salad-thing. Then there’s the other tough, flat thing that’s just…there. It’s too big and too soft to be a cracker. Too thin for flatbread. Too crisp for a crepe. Not much flavor with the texture of cardboard, but highly nutritious according to the grunt my tablemate lets out when he kicks my leg as I play with it.

I bow my head and take a bite, and get a small nod in return. It shouldn’t affect me as much as it does, the simple gesture of approval making me inhale sharply and blink to keep the moisture rapidly rising behind my eyelids in place. I have to look at my steadily emptying tray and pause. For just a moment.

I haven’t paused since I lifted Kaya off the floor and carried him to my couch amid the darkened embers in swirling skies that heralded the return of the Calamity. There’s always been something to do, something to fight, somewhere to get to as quickly as I can. The driving need to go, move, _do something_ pushing me farther and harder than I’ve ever pushed myself before. And for what?

This?

Alone and exhausted and scared, surrounded by indifferent strangers, thwarted in my goals, steadily losing everything from muscle mass to friends, with a debt I don’t _know_ if I’ll ever be able to pay, in the middle of a harsh desert on the south-western edge of Hyrule.

_Why_?

I mean, I _know _why. I remember making every single decision that got me here, but…_why_. Why here? Why now? Why this?

_Why me_?

“Eat, boy.” My tablemate takes pity on me and tears off a strip of his cardboard thing, using it to pick up a cube of the squeaky cheese from the curry and popping it in his mouth, then doing the same with a hunk of voltfruit. Not getting his fingers all saucy and sticky, or having to suck the spoon – that I’m pretty sure is for the coffee and not the food – clean between every bite.

Ah. That makes sense. The lack of flavor is intentional then, so it doesn’t compete with any of the foods it’s used with. The dryness means it soaks up dressings and sauces well. The toughness helps it hold together. I clean my plate, and stack it neatly with the rest of my tablemate’s trays for whoever has to do the dishes after lunch, thankful that it’s not me.

I learned. Once was enough for me to never want to repeat the experience…but it has to be done, and there’s no sense in making the job more difficult than it has to be for whoever does it. Following the other Hylian men seems as though it’s the best thing to do, at least for the time being, and I once again trail after virtual strangers like the lost puppy King Bulblin accused me of being as they go about the next part of their daily routines. That means going outside, however briefly.

It’s disgustingly, _offensively_ hot again, but either the city buildings provide enough protection from the heat, my earrings work better than I could have hoped, or it’s not as hot as it was yesterday because I start sweating in the short distance from the mess hall to the living quarters, but don’t pass out. Just…sweat. Immediately and profusely, which doesn’t help my mood at all. The same man that showed me how to eat taps my shoulder once we’re back in the suite.

“Break, two.” He says, holding up one palm to press his fist against the middle, circling his pointer finger over it like a clock. I assume he means hours. Then he lifts one hand near his face, brushing the other across and out. “Go, you.”

Then he goes to his room, and pointedly closes the door.

After the last day, the last week, with everything that’s gone so very wrong in such a short time – and despite every effort I’ve made to at least _look_ like nothing can get me down, or at the very least, neutrally professional – I can feel my ears droop in disappointment. The six words he’s given me are six words more than anyone not paid to do it has, and I thought I’d finally found someone I could convince to be friendly, if not a friend.

Rather than stand alone in the hallway, I take myself into my assigned room, lay on top of the scratchy sheets on the too long, too narrow bed, and try to clear my head so I can focus on planning what to do next. Instead of letting me think, a blank mind just makes space for all the lonely that I’ve been trying to ignore. I…could really use a friend right now. My best friend. Our girlfriend. My Sheik.

Any friend at all.

I don’t get one, but at least I don’t get completely ignored anymore, either. Somehow, being chased around the circle by the drill sergeant, obeying the instructions that I understand, and not pestering anyone means that the rest of the Hylian men sharing the same quarters are willing to _give_ instruction as best they can. And their names. The names…help. A bit.

After my earlier lesson in humility, the lessons in conformity are much less physically painful. Both are necessary…or would be, if I were actually a gigolo turned recruit for the City Guard that everyone assumes me to be. That assumption is very much apparent after the mid-afternoon break during the hottest part of the day while I take tea in the mess hall with the rest of my squadron, slate in hand.

I ignore the three explicit proposals, wave off a much nicer flirtation, and focus on my borrowed slate. Logging in to my Chirping account shows over four thousand new messages, and even if I had the energy for searching through that daunting list, I don’t have the time.

Instead, I use and abuse both The Wind-Fish Babbles and Tatl-translate to figure out what word I need the pronunciation and usage for, and to help me search for meaning behind the colors and jewelry and markings on the clothes of everyone around me.

The black denotes local militia, completely distinct from the assigned A.R.G. units and funded entirely by the community, with community oversight. The Gerudo lady yelling like a drill sergeant is actually a Sergeant. Sergeant Bertri. My sash means I’m weapons proficient, expected to protect and defend the city and citizens when needed, and entitled to an additional sixty rupees and three hundred more calories a day.

I return to the line so I can use the second immediately, getting a hearty meat skewer to go with the savory cookie-like biscuits and cool Safflina tea that everyone has. Then it’s more lessons in conversational Gerudo before I discover the worst thing about the desert aside from the overwhelming heat.

Running on sand.

For an hour.

At least, it would have been an hour, if the sole my sandal hadn’t broken forty minutes in. Split right down the middle, and I lost part of one of the straps in the process. I can’t very well go about barefoot, and so my debt mounts. At the Coliseum commissary I’m reminded I need toiletries…and a towel. And a change of clothing, including two more tops and a week’s worth of clean underwear. A new Silver Scale. Snacks as well. I know I’d sleep better with a better blanket. Then I run out of data for my slate in the middle of supper, and have to purchase more.

In my allotted leisure time after the evening meal before one final muster in the mess hall, with my squad leader watching us all as the Gerudo ladies stare and snicker at the small groups of men, I tend to my budget.

It’s…grim. At ninety-five Rupees a day for standard training wages, plus the sixty with weapons proficiency, if I work every day and don’t spend any more money, I’ll be here for just over a month to pay for everything. And I need to eat during that month, so I’ll have to spend more than I already have. Even if the standard, basic meals are cheap and healthy and filling, it’s still an expense. One that’s required for me to live, and one that I make damn well certain Korokshire provides every employee, no matter how many hours or shifts they work.

If you work, you eat, if you’re a guest, you eat, if you’re hungry, you eat, no exceptions.

This is unacceptable.

I need to find Tetra, so I need to pay off my debts faster than _that_. I refuse to contemplate simply abandoning them. Other people’s livelihoods are at stake. I _have_ to pay them off, and without credit, I can’t postpone those payments. With credit, there’s interest. Exorbitant, compounding interest. I may not be as quick as Tetra is when it comes to maths, but I can do them…and I can’t do _that_. Not at that kind of rate.

At least my new Silver Scale will pay for itself in five days.

I need to work more. But…the routine of the Coliseum takes all day. Five in the morning until ten at night. I don’t have time for anything else if I want to sleep. There’s the break in the afternoon, when it’s too hot to really do anything but rest...if I could figure out something that doesn’t take very long to do, but earns a lot of…

Amber. The first red-robed Subrosian I met said that the Amber Relics from three or four hunts would cover my debt. Even adding in the cost of the slate and my data plan and the clothes – with an elixir or two to beat the heat – if I could hunt down a monster a day, in just half a week I’d have enough to be free to search to my heart’s content.

It’s a nice thought, even getting my hopes up for a moment, before reality sets in. I have no weapons to call my own, know of no monsters that would threaten Sabak’s defences, and have yet to fight anything scarier than Deku-Babas, Chu-chus and Bokoblins alone. Sheik has helped me with almost every encounter I’ve been in, and I don’t know what I’d do without his expertise and experience…or the motivation he represents.

The only other ways I can think of to make money quickly are gambling, which is highly ineffective and more likely to _lose_ me what cash I do have access to. That and…Kaya’s other area of expertise. A license is expensive, and would mean another few days of trainee wages or another monster kill to get one, but…

_ “Fifty rupees for the blow job would be good.” _

…that’s a lot of money, for a very short, intense period of work. I could…maybe? If it were for ladies, since Sheik definitely didn’t appreciate my efforts in that area the last time I…

A tone echoes through the entire tower, interrupting my internal debate, and the overhead speakers crackle.

“_Please, _{turn} _your _{attention}_ to the television for the regular evening _{broadcast}_.” _With everyone quietly turning to each corner T.V. as they all blip on to a familiar channel, I can fill in the words I don’t know, and find myself eager to finally hear everything I’ve missed over the last few frantic days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 24. Get Lord Spoon to Gerudo, check. Backstory of the world that’s the “undone top button but nowhere near exposed yet” kind of reasons for needing a place for men in Gerudo society created, check. Give a desert people an actual culture and appropriate clothing that isn’t there to represent a pubescent boy’s idea of sexuality and just ends up coming off as horribly ignorant at best like in the games, check. Separate protagonists because plot reasons, check. Rewrite because it doesn’t flow well 4x, check. Reread after clearing my head, check. Sleep, eeeeeh…check? A Minor Test of Cliffhanger? Check! Muahaha.
> 
> Chapter 26. Rewrite entire cliffhanger resolution from chapter 24 to include a stupid, overused meme, check. Become trash. Meme trash. Awful, horrible meme trash for all my lovely trash pandas to maybe get a chuckle, or at least a snort. Possibly. If they even notice.
> 
> Check, plz. Lemme take my doggy bag and yeet myself straight into the garbage.  
(also I am now entirely caught up to what I have actually written for this, though the rest of Unleavened is pretty well mapped out...I just...have to...y'know...stop deleting more words than I'm writing while I edit)  
KTHNXBAI


	27. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pats Sheik’s head: this baby can fit so much unresolved trauma in it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: self-harm ideation, intrusive thoughts, depression, dissociation, shame, trauma responses
> 
> CW: problematic consent (both dubious and non) for physical contact/touching, nudity, pain-seeking behavior, hyper-awareness, language
> 
> This chapter, like the ones immediately preceding it, are written from a place where Sheik is VERY cognizant of his own mental state, and cannot/does not have the necessary supports to get himself out. If this is upsetting to you, please use caution while reading, and as always, if I missed something in the warnings, tell me and I’ll change them!
> 
> Also: ya boy has been floating pretty good on cold meds for the last week and a half, so any spelling and punctuation errors are definitely my bad.
> 
> FC is at 31 for this chapter, which is longer than average, so...proportionally Sheik's potty mouth isn't as evident? As a percentage?

.

Well, well, well. If it isn’t the consequences of my own half-baked actions – served up on a Styrofoam platter and accompanied by a light appetizer of actually getting what fucking I wished for – coming back to bite me in the ass. Sort of. Enough that I’m satisfied with the results, at least, though my comeuppance could have used more tongue.

I got a _bath_. I’m almost actually _clean_, and it’s so good I don’t even care about the company. Or the rant. Or anything else, really.

“…and if you plan on wearing her colors, then you _will_ be clean, you _will_ be tidy, and you _will_ comport yourself with the dignity this house deserves! Do I make myself clear?” Aveil – or rather _Mistress_ _Aveil Mik of House Barta _– is apparently Nabooru’s best friend, and is a ferocious terror with a lance in hand. I believe it, because she’s a weapons-grade terror with a hairbrush and wash cloth and had no qualms about proving it the moment my performance with either became unsatisfactory.

Also known as the moment I started dissociating…or maybe a bit after? I was doing fine washing my hair and scrubbing the accumulated filth from days spent on the road from my skin, but then the razor was so very shiny, so _sharp_, and…well. It’s probably for the best that every Gerudo in the building that I’ve met apparently has no sense of privacy or personal boundaries, though they both hesitated before actually physically touching me.

Not that they _stopped_.

Understandable, really. Brave, even, especially in Aveil’s case. During the past few days I haven’t exactly been the paragon of cleanliness I normally aspire to be. You know, one fit for a commercial from a soap brand with a blatantly heavy-handed inclusivity based marketing scheme. _That_ kind of clean. Hashtag _goals_. I’m not used to changing color when exposed to water. That’s _disgusting_, and I did it _twice_. Ugh…

She’s not used to male anatomy, and is determined to prove she’s not making a big deal of it by _not_ staring-while-actually-staring, increasing her volume, and doing whatever the fuck she wants to the organic structures that host my consciousness anyway, all with a casual disregard for the bits that might be _sensitive_.

Not that she’s dared to dip the washcloth beneath the waterline and find out just how sensitive I really am, either, but if it weren’t for the way I’ve curled in on myself, I know she would. Not to be invasively lewd, but because she’s in charge of making _absolutely certain_ that I am clean while keeping all the sharp and shiny things out of reach.

She’s so _loud_ – both vocally and chromatically – and direct to the point where the scale tips from brash to blatantly rude. Capable, and confident for it. Arrogant, even. Just like Nabooru. I can see why they’re friends.

Her _emphatic instruction_ gives my foggy brain something to focus on, and the sound of her iridescent irritation lets me know exactly where she is when I can’t see her, which helps. Not wanting to drown in the fresh bathwater helps too, though there is less of it than I’d really like. Barely hot, yet warm enough to do the job despite her deepening onyx frustration. I can’t bring myself to care. Not when I am entirely, thoroughly, blissfully, _clean_. Really clean. Cleaner than I’ve been since we left Korokshire.

Both of us, together. Before he…

Stop it, Kaya. Focus on the glaring present, not the shimmers of regret. Only one of them can hurt you. Her yelling is nothing more concerning than blowing off some hot air out of the preferred end, and even though I’m sure her scrubbing took off the top layer of my skin, it didn’t _really_ hurt.

Not the way I’m craving, anyway.

Goddesses, I need to be _fucked. _Pinned down and _used_ in a way that would probably horrify anyone remotely sane. If I had any sense of self-preservation left, it would horrify _me_, but that disappeared along with my purpose in life. At least I know that if I could find a way to make it happen I would feel something _normal_, and not this numb glass-bubble hollow where everything outside is muted, muffled, and dull while everything inside would weep if only I could catch my breath.

A surprise beating would probably break through just as effectively, but I’d rather get fucked. That way, _someone _gets to feel good, after, and I can play with the bruises to keep from asking for a repeat performance.

With that urgent craving coursing through my veins, it’s totally not her fault when she yanks on my hair – to wrestle it into a braid – that the familiar ache makes me pop a rod, even though she thinks it is. And does it again, though I don’t get any harder the second time around. Leaves me to dress alone, probably going to inform Nabooru that I’m not only violet, but a freak with a taste for pain, as well. Immediately.

I…can’t bring myself to care about that, either. Too much effort spent towards no meaningful purpose, just like the last thirteen years of my life. Technically the first eleven as well. I find I don’t actually want to move. Too much effort, and what would be the point? Where the fuck would I go? So I sit. Swirl the water. Watch the eddies my skinny fingers make rippling through the liquid in increasingly complex reflections of themselves until they fade away to nothing.

Time passes.

I’m not sure how much. My hair is mostly dry, dick mostly soft, brain coasting on idle when the door opens to let Tye in again. I can see – easily – that he’s as freshly scrubbed as I am, but dressed in the same clothes as he was before. The wet hair and skin are telling, as are the dark droplets on his shirt, which has seen better days. The division badges and aiguillettes of rank have been removed, but it’s definitely a Guard’s uniform. At least I managed to acquire appropriate civilian garments for Link _and_ myself during our mad dash across half of Central Hyrule. Point for me.

He saved Princess Tetra – and therefore the Royal Line itself – from certain death, though, which puts the score at approximately nine hundred to one. Or three hundred and thirty four thousand to one if we’re comparing the annual income of a member of the Royal Family to my temporary part-time gig fondling cock for cash.

I don’t even know where the fuck Link is, so maybe it’s closer to infinity to one.

Maybe I should stop trying to keep score.

“Oh, _konlega_…” He sighs, and turns his back on me. Letting me watch as he goes to the pile of my dirty garments to try and scrub out the worst of the stains in a bucket of the now tepid water. The dirt, the asphalt, the grass, the mud, the puke, the blood. Every one of my collection of eco-friendly decorations speak of my journey to this point without me having to say a word.

I take the time to breathe deeply enough to stop being a whiny little bitch, and start the process of air drying on a near-by stool since I don’t have a towel. Leaving my clothes to dry over of the curtain rod that doesn’t have a curtain lets him wander closer. I watch him do it.

“Permission to touch?” He asks, again. Like some sort of demented mantra, as though asking over and over will somehow conjure whatever results he wants if he only does it enough times. There’s a word for that kind of behavior, but he isn’t like me – broken, useless, _fucking crazy_ – so he must be something else.

He’s not aroused – frustrated, disappointed, tired, a little bit awed, and so very hungry, but not aroused – so I don’t know what he hopes to gain by it. Rather than having to speak to him and risk breaking the seal of indifferent apathy that I’ve cultivated as an unhealthy coping mechanism, I shrug, nod, and make no move to dodge his hand as it traces the Goddesses’ brand of condemnation on my face. The three triangles over the line of my brow. The curled cap across my lash-line. The tear trailing down my perfectly dry cheek.

Again, wetting it would be too much effort for no noticeable result, and it’s too people-y here, besides.

Were it not for the shave – courtesy of Aveil – that accompanied my bath, his calloused fingers would catch on my stubble as they follow my jawline and tilt my chin upwards. He’s no longer a child, either, but a man grown. A man finally giving me a cue – now that his wife is gone – as to what he wants from me. I can take a hint, and even though it’s not there yet, that touch tells me precisely where this is going.

Exactly where I expected it to. Just like any other man, though his self-control is stupidly good to have concealed the truth for so long. Almost as good as Link’s. He’s probably been able to hold off so far because he’s married – and what the fuck is that, Tye being _married_ – or because other people were here and he’s not an exhibitionist, and so didn’t want anyone to watch me blow him.

I can understand the wife not wanting him to blatantly fuck around bit, but the two Gerudo? Honestly, they _should_ watch, because if they’re both still after a man at this point in their lives they could probably use some pointers on technique. I may not be the husband polite society says they should be looking for, but I can sure give them the tools they’ll need to land one. Step one, draw their attention to your mouth. I’m already halfway there, and moisten the chapped ridges of my lips with just a flicker of my tongue that Tye steadfastly ignores, even though he noticed. I saw the shift in his attention.

“I need you to do something for me.” Holding my head still so he can look into my eyes as though that’s where he’s always been looking, Tye tries to keep up the façade of legitimate business even as his thumb traces closer to my lips. I let my eyelids droop and my lashes flutter. “Something important. My lady…” The slightest twist in his grasp lets me take that thumb into my mouth, and that alone is enough to have him sucking in a breath and all his colors flare and twist and pulse with a kaleidoscope of emotion, including the arousal he’s been either deliberately ignoring or actively suppressing.

Then he pulls away and backs up several steps despite the thickening in his pants, shock and disgust vying for first place in his tones with desire a close third. Suppressing, then. He must like his cats to play with his toy before he feeds them the cream. I’m getting ahead of things by acting on my own. Or he could just hate violets. I didn’t bother checking.

Fucked up again there, Kaya. Big surprise.

Not too late for a beating, though, if I play my cards right. Slouch where I sit. Curve my shoulders inward. Eyes _down_. Wait for it.

“_No_.” Gathering all his aether into himself and using it to regain a sense of authority and control, Tye…still has enough restraint to refrain from hitting me. The clenched fist makes me flinch, though, and slide to my knees before him as my well-developed fear-response tells me to fawn, this time. He’s strong, and powerful, and has clearly established himself as superior, here. To be obeyed. I see why Nabooru kept calling him Captain. Fuck, it might even be his real title. “No, Kaya. Oh, _konlega_, who…never mind. Mistress Nabooru did not specify whether you were ill or injured, so I must ask. Can you dress yourself, or do you require assistance?” He’s even better than Link at controlling himself…but I’ll remember just in case he changes his mind about having a round with my throat, later.

“Everything’s wet.” I remind him as gently as possible – technically not having permission to speak – keeping my gaze unfocused and away and my voice and posture soft in the hopes that he won’t try to knock some sense into me. While clothing would be nice – giving me one more barrier between him and my still damp and therefore fragile skin – I only have the one set, and nowhere to run that won’t just piss him off further. He’s still colored with pervasive fatigue, but that’s now overlaid with sour grief, and all of it muted with a blinding rage. He’s _so angry_…

Edging yourself into dangerous territory there, Kaya. Back up a bit. You _do not_ want to remember, remember? Besides, just look at him. He’s far too well composed to actually beat you, no matter how you provoke him. Intentionally or not. He’d have done it already if he was goings to, so don’t try. Head down. _Shut up_.

Putting on wet clothing is twice as bad as taking it off, if only because success just means a set of evenly chapped genitals later. I _could_ dry it off if I’d eaten anything more than a packet of dried noodles in the last twenty-odd hours – maybe closer to thirty (forty?) since the Outset Early Riser didn’t stay down – but I haven’t, and there’s a fine line between ‘dry’ and ‘on fire’. Until I’ve acclimatized to the local environment, I can’t risk the only thing I have to wear by experimenting with unfamiliar aether pools and uncertain personal energy flow.

“It will dry.” Sitting on the floor next to stool that’s still warm from my ass puts him on even footing with me and in a position of weakness. Like he doesn’t care that I could just as easily have taken the fight route not ten seconds ago if freeze wasn’t my favorite and fawn hadn’t decided for me. The distance between us means he doesn’t think I’m any kind of threat, or worth bothering to relieve himself with. Any pride I may have had really needed the boost. I’ll have to thank him for that, if I ever find it again.

Gotta find Link first. Focus, Kaya. You’ve _got_ to find Link. You shouldn’t have lost him in the first place. Note to self: kill Veran. This would be so much easier if our Bond was still in place and not torn to absolute ruin. Gone as though it never was, while leaving behind all the hollow shapes it used to fill.

Tye sighs, turning a hue of subtle melancholy that’s as drab as my apartment back in Korokshire. I’d happily spend the rest of my days there if it meant everything else went back to the way it was. Maybe minus Forelock’s murderous stalking. Minus losing Grant, definitely…though having Kahti also living there may have gotten awkward sooner rather than later. Now we’ll never know. I can’t get my head any lower without outright laying down on the floor, and that’d draw too much unwanted attention, so I sit. Slouch further. Stare at the floor. More time passes as he thinks and I do my very best not to.

Pretty sure the hole I’ve dug myself into doesn’t go any deeper, but better not to try.

“Kaya – no, _Sheik_ – I need your help.” The eldest of my _esclavin_ brothers admits, regaining my ambivalent attention and drawing it from the same dark pools I’ve been drowning in for…far too long. “Or rather, I would ask for your assistance on behalf of another, from whom the Gossip draws my descriptive name.”

What is he talking about? How would being Lightkeeper…because he keeps the light.

Oh…

…oh _no fucking way_.

“When we…_we…_ended up, um, _relocating_…we were carrying a lot of baggage. It hasn’t been unpacked, and weighs quite a bit. If you could…help unlock it, and maybe move some to smaller cases for uh, temporary storage, it would be appreciated.” Even speaking indirectly – as if there’s anyone else around to hear and connect the dots given a couple awkward sentences – I fucking _know_ what that shit means.

It means if I had anything in my stomach, I’d fucking hurl.

It means Tye hasn’t been able to help her. The light that he’s kept safe since Claree fell.

Princess Tetra.

It means he wants _me_ to work the _blatant, prohibited, fucking illegal_ Witchcraft of toying with other people’s emotions, because he either can’t or won’t.

It means he can’t, because he would if he could, and that he doesn’t see any other way.

If he can’t do it then I sure as fuck don’t see any other options, either. I _can_. I have been for years. It’s not like I can be any _more_ disgraced, after all. Not without lying, and losing the last part of me that I can still call my own. The only thing that makes me worth _anything_.

It’s not like we have a full support-staff to fall back on, or teams of professionals to turn to in times of crisis. I’m _used_ to that. He’s not. It shows in the stress-lines and fractured nature of his patterns, and my relatively stable ones. For me, at least. My scars are of a different sort that have left no marks on my spook-dark skin, but still need support to heal. Support I haven’ had since the first score tracked across my soul the day that Eran died. Studying Healing Runes helps, but there’s only so much I can do on my own to repair the great rents torn in the very fabric of my being.

I’ve gotten used to working with what I have. _Alone_.

…I still can’t think of an alternative. Not that my brain is letting me explore my current lack of options. Instead, it’s screaming, because I know what his asking in the first place means. Schrodinger’s theoretical cat is not only alive, but out of the bag.

It means I was _right_.

It means that – by Majora’s Cursed Mind-jacking Mask – Princess Tetra _is_ here. Majora’s _Wrath_, Princess Tetra is _here_. She’s _here_, and Link’s _not_, and he _would have been_ if I could have only fucking _kept up_. _Dammit_, Kaya! Some Sheik you turned out to be…Princess Tetra is here, and he’s not, and that’s on _you_.

_All_ of it.

Including the fact that he’s survived this long, and is in the desert as well. Even if he’s not _here_, here. He…he’ll come, though. He _will_. If the last week is any indication, he won’t stop until he does. Not for anything or anyone. I have to believe in that. I _have _to. I also have to do everything I can to help make that happen.

No matter what.

I don’t…I don’t know where Link is. I promised myself that I’d fulfill my duties as his Sheik despite Veran – may her teeth spontaneously retract into her gums – obliterating our Bond. I promised I would stand amid the unbroken line that has guarded Hylia’s children for untold thousands of years. The ones that have been called by divine purpose on behalf of the Three, though not everyone is as lucky to be as visibly marked by it as I am. Branded for a purpose, so everyone can see.

The Goddesses create for a purpose, but they do not make our choices for us. I have a choice to make, here and now. A hand to play as the supposedly shattered legend unfolds, _again_. Din, Nayru, and Farore – and their chosen avatar in the form of Hylia – are the reason I have any cards in the first place, and even though I can choose how I play them, there are rules to the game. Princess Tetra is _here_. Claree is _dead_. My Bond is _open_. The deck’s fucking stacked, and the house _always_ wins.

I am a Sheik, after all. After everything. It’s all I’ve ever dreamt of being. All I’ve ever known. Eran assumed it. Link regretted it. Princess Tetra needs it. _Now_. I shouldn’t feel like such an apostate…but I do. For making the only choice the truth will allow, even if it isn’t really a choice. Forget the proverbial rock and a hard place, this is the crypt I was buried in at the moment of my selection as a potential _esclavin _for the Royal Line. Overthinking it just drags it out.

I should know.

Come on, Kaya. Shit or get off the pot. Tye’s waiting for the yes you both know you’ll say. Like the touching thing, it’s the only answer I can really give.

“I’ll need a steady hand, and some very sharp knives.” The Trials await, and there’s only one way I know of to access them. Without Grand Master Impa’s help, I’ll need that steady hand even more than the knives, and have to assume Tye can be convinced that it’s necessary and instructed in the order, placement, and speed of the cuts he’ll need to inflict so it’s a flaying while I’m still alive, and not just a skinning of my scrawny-ass corpse.

It’s kinda hard to be reborn into a new purpose if you’re dead and all. Plus, I’d make an awful rug, and my skin’s too thin for proper gloves. Maybe a book cover…a small one.

“That will take a couple days.” Surprisingly, Tye doesn’t disagree. Then I want to kick myself for being a new and improved flavor of stupid. He’s got a lot of the same training I do, and knows how much easier casting is when blood flows. How much better a sharp knife is than a dull one, and a steady hand instead of one that trembles or is hesitant. Even what, precisely, the Trials entail. It’s for Princess Tetra, so of course he wouldn’t object. He’s the Lightkeeper, before all the Conclave. That is what is at the _core _of who he is. “Maybe a week, depending on how much we can save.”

“How much do you need?” A good knife – let alone a good knife set – is expensive. The last ones I had is still in Regan’s penthouse hovel. The one before that is probably still sitting in an unprocessed evidence locker until either the end of time or an A.R.G. officer decides they like the balance too much to leave it to rust.

“The entire purchase price, which is running at around sixty rupees each in the market right now. Mistress Nabooru’s been very kind to hide us this long, and although ‘Reli does what she can, feeding four extra people is a strain.” He admits, seeming to age a decade in three sentences.

“Four?” Princess Tetra is here. Tye is here. I assume that he’s counting Regan since they were together when the Calamity hit like a Stone Talus’ fist to the face, but that leaves one more…and he can’t be counting me. Can he? It has to be his wife…but that doesn’t make sense either. She’s working, and feeding four extra, which implies four people _aside_ from herself. Yeran, maybe? They were so close when we were six, what with Regan and Yeran being twins and all of us sharing literally everything but hygienic supplies.

My brothers, even if those two were the only ones actually related by blood. I think. My _konlega_. Eran wasn’t the only one I lost on that miserable day.

“We made a quick pit stop at the 7B apartments and ended up with an unexpected but frighteningly competent guide.” Tye shrugs. It’s not Yeran, then, but an unknown. Somehow, that’s easier to bear. “I don’t have the Sight anymore, but she’s proven herself loyal repeatedly, and we would have had a much rougher time of it without her help. Quid pro quo, when she asked to accompany us further, I did not object.”

“...how long…who…when the…” I start, stuttering as the questions I have pile on top of each other one right after another now that I’ve begun using my brain again. “…did…when…do you know if the electrical grid crashed out here, and if it did, when, and when it came back online?” I have my pet theory to feed, and then further questions to ask depending on the answers I get.

“I don’t, but Mistress Nabooru may. You can ask over supper.” He smiles, tones going from that somber melancholy to cautious consternation. “The food’s not much, and not very good, but it’s what we’ve got available.” He warns me. Me. The guy who’s eaten things that he probably wouldn’t even _consider_, just to fill my stomach enough that it didn’t hurt. The guy who has done things a Royal Guard isn’t supposed to know exist – and wouldn’t think about if they did – just so I would have a place to sleep.

My ass is still sore from the last time, for fuck’s sake.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine.” Reassuring him is easy, managing my nerves requires a little more effort. Luckily enough, standing up and pulling on my mostly dry clothing takes literally all my attention and energy, and the numb detachment that’s more familiar than he is at this point descends once I have a physical barrier between us again. I have to shut my brain off in order for the rest of me to function as needed, so I do. It’s not the first time.

I’ll worry about tomorrow when tomorrow comes. Tonight, there’s something to eat, somewhere to sleep, and something to do. Even if I don’t like it, it’s so much better than nothing. After all my failures, it’s more than I deserve.

I’m grateful. Truly, deeply, and honestly. There’s no room for me to feel anything else.

Outside the bath in the heart of the complex that is House Ashai’s own small town within the larger city, there are enough people to stare, and enough diversity that I don’t feel the urge to draw the growing shadows around myself and hide. Keep my head down, yes. Hide, no. No Kokiri, Yeti, or Zora, but as we cover ground with the precise stride that was once my unthinking average, I see enough representatives of every other kind of people that significantly populates Hyrule to not feel like the kind of freak my looks mark me as in Castletown. Including two Twili…which with all the sun in the fucking desert, what the over-ripe fruit flavored fuck?

Whatever. Not my business.

I am also not the most ragged, though Tye and I _are_ the only Sheikah. We don’t stop to speak with anyone – our pace discouraging conversation – and that helps even more. Another kind of invisibility that I’ll have to remember for when I’m too tired to focus enough to cast or slink and have to move through a crowd. Like now, though the beginnings of a headache balance out my lightheaded nausea enough that I can keep up with Tye’s longer strides.

Just have to keep up, Kaya. You know what happens when you don’t.

All in all – if I ignore the architecture designed for a desert climate instead of the continental or oceanic environments I’ve seen before – it’s similar to any other city I’ve been in, with a few notable differences. Social stratification has been deliberately countered by making the entire city accessible to every resident. That means every building and all the roadways can accommodate everything from the Rito’s need for perches and launch pads to a Goron’s girth and weight.

Obviously, there are more Gerudo than anyone else, but none of them seem to think less of their neighbors just for being their neighbors. It’s fucking weird. The two Gerudo ladies clearly on patrol – with open-carry weapons, despite no badges and not a shred of A.R.G. blue anywhere on their black uniforms – don’t even look at us twice as we pass by close enough that I can smell the decent quality perfume one of them is wearing, tipping the lightheadedness towards giddy when the rush of adrenaline from the encounter fades with no more acknowledgement of our presence than they give the Human carrying groceries or the Goron peddling raw gemstones on the corner.

No one, _no one_, stops or questions either myself or Tye – let alone asks our purpose or for our identification – as we follow clearly planned and paved roadways and sidewalks to a building marked with a sign painted the lightest shade of blush. I can read the phonetic lettering, but have no idea what the sounds represented mean in that order. My brain simply cannot process, even when I sound it out under my breath. Thankfully, my phone has a whiff of a charge left, and a quick search on someone’s open wifi connection tells me that it’s a tiny library.

Still no signal from Link’s phone, though, no pull from my Tears, and just darkness from the Pirate’s Charm I made him.

The door opens, and something tight in my chest unwinds as the rich scents of old leather, paper, glue, and ink waft through the air. Stacks of books line every wall – both in their cases and piled neatly on the floor – with space for three tables with four chairs each, and two study pods against the front wall to take advantage of the natural light from the windows. Given the size of the building, there’s much more material hidden away behind one of the three doors I can see, though I have to assume the one with a picture of a toilet in profile on it contains just that and not simply the books that could have used another half-dozen rounds with an editor…though a paper product is a paper product, when push comes to shove.

The other two are potential escape routes, but could also end up being traps. I keep one eye on the front door and let the other scan the room as Tye wanders deeper inside…towards more books. So many books. Small, hand-written script is scrawled on sticky-notes labelling the contents of each shelf and the piles beside, including an entire bookcase and a half that are supposedly in Modern Hyrulean. Titles like; _A Glimpse of Sabak_, _Seven Problems with Linguistics_, _1001 Bright Ideas_, _The History of the Potato: Part Four_, and _Gerudo for Busy People: II_ all catch my eye, though only two of those are immediately relevant.

Not that I can let go of the fact that _The History of the Potato: Part Four_ has at least four parts and is easily over three hundred pages. It sparks an interest in me that I will _have _to return to later, if only to read a synopsis. I mean…potatoes. Who the fuck can write that much on potatoes? _What_ can be written about potatoes? Horticulturally speaking, there’s a lot of _types_ of potatoes, but…

“Kaya?”

Oh, right.

Tye holds the left door open until I walk through it, then continues to hold it while an older Gerudo lady in House Ashai’s colors and some kind of insignia walks out to take her place at the desk. There are five rows of floor-to-ceiling filing cabinets and a hall that leads to yet another door…which has more apotropaic wards and seals on it than I managed to put on my old dorm room over the course of a term and a half. While it’s feasible that there are dangerous books and maybe even scrolls hidden away behind them, but…most of the seals are fresh enough that they’ve still got the satisfaction or your money-back guarantee.

Logically, whatever is behind that door hasn’t been there long. Logically, whatever – _whoever_ – is there needs as much protection as possible. That tracks. Fuck me with a Boko club, but it all tracks.

Breathe, Kaya. It’s just Princess Tetra. You’ve shared multiple meals together, and recently at that. You know, before the Resurgence of the Calamity. Before you misplaced her fiancé after having your Bond to him broken like untampered glass. Before most of her family was murdered in front of her in cold blood. Before her older sister betrayed her and she had to flee for her life with just the clothes on her back. More than a decade after you basically killed her older brother.

Saints and fucking Sages, no wonder Tye needs help unpacking that emotional baggage. I just have to set mine aside long enough to do it, and pray that Link finds a way to charge his phone enough that I can connect. That he still has his phone. Or his Pirate’s Charm. I can track that too, if he’d put it against his skin. Skin that I’m familiar with. Skin I’ve _tasted_.

Blood I got on my clothes, before Tye washed them. Goddesses _fuck_, Kaya! How inept do you have to be?! I mean, yeah, conventional wisdom says you can’t be both smart and pretty, and you’ve looked in plenty of mirrors, so why are you continually surprised by your own incompetence? Oh, that’s right. You’re _pretty_. Conventional wisdom was _fucking right_.

Din _damn it_! Maybe there’s enough traces left for a little Sympathetic Mapping later. Fuck, _later_. Oh, _fuck._ Any vestiges of Link’s presence in my clothing will have to wait, because there are other things I need to worry about right now.

Princess Tetra looks like she’s been dragged face down through the comments section on a Traditionalist’s opinion post. Raggedly cut and freshly bleached hair, this is probably the first time she’s ever gone more than half a day without expertly applied make-up since she was a toddler. Bruised and aching beyond the physical and emotional welts and battering. I know the look of soul-deep trauma. I’ve seen it before, and not just in the mirror. Know how to hold it, and make manifest the inherent strength. I wear the results wrapped around my head and braided into my hair.

I can’t just…_not_ help her.

I _can’t!_ I couldn’t even on behalf of a stranger. She’s Eran’s little sister. Link’s love. My Princess.

The mismatched furniture has clearly been pulled from a staff room somewhere, and doesn’t even slow me down as I go and kneel before her. Not fast enough to avoid the looping recall of my first glimpse of her playing across my mind’s eye over and over like HNN’s Misplays of the Month. Pale beneath the uneven tan leaning towards a sunburn that has to sting and as outwardly composed as inside she seethes with regret and loss and loneliness and so, so, so much grief. So much despair that it’s making her physically ill. Has she eaten? Slept? I can’t tell.

Hand over my heart, head bowed, eyes down. Oh, sweet Nayru, _it’s so much worse close up_, if only because she was never meant to know this kind of pain. Claree was…

Claree was not as closely tied to Princess Tetra as I was to Eran, despite the extra years they had together to strengthen their Bond. Even now, the attachments she has to Link are stronger, and keep a fine latticework mesh over the worst of the severed cords of aether now floating loose and unbound from her weaving. Cleanly cut, swiftly severed, and otherwise completely intact. Neat. Ordered. Not a stray fiber or mis-woven strand to be seen. Painful, yes, but not _broken_.

Much better than the devastation Eran’s death caused in my patterns, but that only makes sense. I was supposed to reinforce him, so _he_ could continue beyond mortal means. Not the other way around. Claree’s sacrifice was not in vain. Tetra’s _saithr _strands have held together well, despite an attack that would have destroyed another, or left them wholly unrecognizable. They’re even starting to heal on their own, with the immense aetheric reserves of the Royal bloodline.

I can work with this. I can! I…just need her permission to transmute an otherwise invasive and unwelcome touch into a healing one, though any physical healing will be yet more work and have to wait for another day. One where I have had time to process whether or not to scream or laugh or cry at the Fate the Goddesses have given me. Perhaps all three.

“Princ…” I need her permission for this moment, now, before I actually do anything, or _everything_ I do will be further insult to the line of Hylia and everything that I am…and I _am_, whether I want to be or not.

“Sheik.” She interrupts me, dry and rasping and raw, and I close my presumptive lips and shut the fuck up. She gets to speak first. Always. I’d forgotten, and dare not breathe for fear of further trespass. “Call me Sheik.” She says, leaving me speechless anyway. Glancing up incredulously, I get caught in her desperate need.

Her eyes are so very…much. Like the sky and the sea and the fields combined. Like Nayru’s Sacred Realm, layered in a glorious and terrible depth.

I lose myself in them, transfixed, as she looks at me as though she can perceive more than I can, until she is satisfied with whatever she has found. The rhinestone decals on the pockets of her ill-fitting jeans scrape against the dented metal office chair as she leans forward, making me wince in empathetic pain for her very real physical bruises and prevalent aetheric tears. Any magic she uses would hurt just as much, and the movement alone is enough to aggravate the wounds. Just seeing her shift and irritate what has barely begun to heal makes me wince, though I do not deny her the contact she seeks. I can’t. I _can’t_. She must be in _so much_ pain, and yet…

Her touch is as gentle as the mother I never knew. Turning my face into her soft hands I let my eyes close and my ego go. I breathe, and still, and know the question that must needs be given voice. The question she needs to hear, regardless of the source. Naryu’s Blessing touches me still, it seems.

“What do you wish of me, Sheik?” The question comes from the intuitive part of my weaving hidden deep within me. The one that takes the thousands of little things too small to notice and builds them into a cohesive whole. When Her will brightens the markers of my soul’s journey, I go. This is the path I must walk. This is where the greatest benefit lies. The message is clear.

Don’t fuck up again.

My Princess shifts, her intent brilliant, her colors wavering _hard_. Hard enough to make me nauseous, but not enough that I can’t anticipate what is to come, or think about how to respond. I don’t even _have_ to think about it because my arms are already moving on their own, except this time it’s not to hurl my breakfast at evil – kinesthetically at a meteo Wizzrobe in a grocery store or gastro-intestinally at a Bulblin in the street – but to give my master’s beloved somewhere safe to rest.

Tye, Nabooru, and Hina – yeah, Hina would count as frighteningly competent and exceedingly loyal and knowing that relieves some insignificant part of my anxiety over their trip through the underbelly of Castletown – quietly leave the room as she shakes and shudders and soaks my shoulder clear through with the precious liquids she must have been holding on to the entire time. If Link were here…

…he’s not. Neither is Eran. Both are my fault.

All my fault.

I can never atone for it, and so I hold her while she cries herself out, drawing Spirit Orb after Spirit Orb away to lessen the torrent of her grief, and wish I dared to do the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adskjgflkgadfjgkljdf
> 
> So
> 
> I had a particular scene in chapter 32 written months ago, as a MAJOR plot point, and when the trailer for Hyrule Warriors: Age of Calamity came out and showed the Yiga clan members doing the exact same thing in the exact same way with very similar circumstances I had a moment of “omg do I rewrite this entire thing?” and then went “nah, just shows that I haven’t gone dangerously AU” and left it as is.
> 
> In other news…having gotten to the actual writing part of next part of this series, I was starting to outline specifics in chapter 07 and realized that I’d broken my world in a previous chapter…and ended up having to entirely scrap 5 chapters, and rewrite 2 more and I am screaming but everything’s cool updates will continue I’m just going to have to use nano to write more in this universe instead of exploring other ideas it’s fine everything’s cool I’m just (；￣Д￣）


	28. what do you mean I forgot to put a chapter title in

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Link:（ΟΔΟ；；）Wait, what? What? WHAT?!?
> 
> Sheik: (￢_￢;) Uh...yeah?
> 
> Tetra: ＼(〇_ｏ)／ 
> 
> Malon: (￣_￣)・・・I'll just...be over here.
> 
> Dastardly Villain: (｀∀´)Ψ

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: reference to past genocide (canon implied, and I’ve altered the official timeline a bit, but…yeah)  
CW: racism, internalized homophobia, politicization of marginalized groups, institutional violence, forced compliance, mild xenophobia, ableism
> 
> Brief mention of a non-canonical, entirely fantastical, non-Gregorian calendar system because…yeah. Doesn’t exist in this world.  
Annoyance in writing this chapter – His and Her Majesty is not flagged as a grammatical error, but Her and His Majesty is, and the indicator drives me low key eye-twitchy mad.  
FC: 0  
Link swears. Once. Reluctantly, but meaningfully. Sadly, it is not a “fuck” so it does not count.
> 
> Now, back to our regularly scheduled update.

.

Though I began watching other television programs much, much earlier – drowsing on my mother’s lap in the delicate silence of my father’s stern regard – I’ve spent the last six years paying deliberate attention to the news. Watching and listening to the stories that will eventually be written into Hyrule’s history from the safety of my suite, as a way to know what’s happening in the world and prepare myself before I set foot in it. A daily debrief that tells me what happened while I wasn’t there, what I can expect to encounter in the near future, with important updates occurring in real time as they happen.

Or at least as close to “as they happen” to make regularly scheduled broadcast times, baring natural disasters and emergency bulletins. Short bursts of information to keep people safe are more effective when broadcast quickly and to as wide an audience as possible, and ideally will contain a few sentences at most. Everything else – things that need explanations or expositions – can be delayed for a while to let the whole story emerge and give fact checkers time to work and find secondary and tertiary sources. Confirmation of fact, instead of propagation of rumor.

I’d rather wait a bit to make sure that my main sources are reputable, factual, and as unbiased as possible. The history of the country I have vowed to serve is at once a tale of incredible prosperity and one of immense sorrow, loss, and betrayal. With dozens of races and a half-dozen nations beneath the Hyrulean flag, the balance between consultation and conquest can be a very thin line, and one that _has_ been crossed in the past.

The secrecy behind the Twilight invasion is one such instance, while the Sheikah Consolidation Policy sixty years ago is the most recent example.

And yet, to ignore one side of the line is a disservice to the other, and so I _also_ pay attention to the disreputable, sensationalist, biased sources for perspective and to know how misinformation both started and spread. Especially when it concerns buyers for Korokshire’s exports, Castletown’s by-laws, Hyrule’s treaties and agreements, actions of various Progressive protesters, the destruction of small groups of Traditionalist extremists, and anything regarding the Royal Family.

If the machinations, perversions, propaganda, secrecy, and outright lies of the Twilight Era taught me anything, it’s that equity – not equality – and open, honest communication is the key to having a happy, stable, and unified populace.

Well, that, and the lengths that some people will go to for power. The upheaval within the nation on our southern and western borders over the last decade has make that much _appallingly_ clear.

Thus, when the televisions in each corner blip on and the intro theme for HNN’s evening broadcast plays over the speaker system in the mess hall, I find myself turning towards the screen on a nearly instinctual level. The simple thematic intro that I’ve listened to nearly every day for last decade has instilled an instant response in me that I was entirely unaware of until hearing it here and feeling my heart slow and my breath deepen in anticipation of getting the knowledge I crave.

Even now, I want to _know_.

That simple desire has me eagerly flicking my ears forward and turning in my seat. Of all of Hyrule’s national news stations, HNN is considered both highly factual and only as biased as the tone of the individual reporter’s delivery can make the article by both national and international fact checkers. No emotionally charged language, no guessing at what their reporters don’t know. When they don’t know, they admit they don’t know, and update as facts become available.

They have since I started watching the news all those years ago…even if that was just so I could see my father’s face, and pretend he was in the same room. That he was talking to me. Just for a while. I grew disenchanted with that fantasy quickly enough, but HNN, HBC, and The Castletown Post have all been a consistent source of comfort, since. Even if the news is bad, I’d rather _know_. If I know, then I can respond, not react, and if my heart gets bruised, well, that simply means I’ve yet to grow calloused and indifferent against the suffering of others.

All this _means_ to me is that HNN is reliable. Accessible. Trustworthy and consistent. Plus, they don’t send paparazzi out to pester people and create drama for the sake of higher sales numbers.

I appreciate that.

I appreciate that _a whole lot_.

“From Hyrule Network News headquarters in Hato, Castletown. This is HNN nightly news with Guru Gorman.” As the camera pans in from the opening theme to the lead anchor for tonight I can honestly say that Guru looks _awful_. Bad enough that the make-up doesn’t do enough to hide both the weight and hair he’s lost since I last had the leisure to watch the news. Before the Calamity struck. He looks as though he’s aged a full year for every day between.

I can understand that. Really, I can.

“Good evening, and welcome to our viewers in Hyrule and around the world. I’m Guru Gorman, for HNN evening news. Thank you for joining us for the next hour as we bring you our top stories from around the country.” He sounds awful, too. Tight and pained. “On this Dinsday evening, a country in mourning. The Life and Legacy of the Royal Family: where Hyrule will go from here.”

What did…?

…_what_?

I didn’t…I mean, yes, Sheik told me about what happened to Her and His Majesty – my future in-laws – before we even set foot on this benighted cross-country trek, but…I didn’t really _process_ it. I believed that _he_ believed that ominous portent to be true, but there was no way to confirm it, and so I didn’t _dismiss_ it, but I didn’t really consider it, either. I didn’t think…

I’ve been doing a lot of that, lately. Not thinking. Over-thinking things that don’t matter. Only one thing matters to me right now. No, that’s not true. There’s a lot of things that matter to me, things that I’ve been pushing away, ignoring, or actively destroying in an effort to make it all disappear, in order to focus on the thing matters to me the _most_.

That Tetra is alive. She has to be. She _has to_ _be._ I’ve _heard_…Tye talk about her. I haven’t heard _her_, have no proof beyond Sheik’s word that she survived, that he’s been tracking her, leading me to her, that she’s okay…and the feeling in my gut. The one that gets hollower with every word coming from Guru’s lips. The Bond between us is gone, so I couldn’t feel what Sheik was feeling when he spoke, wasn’t listening to the tone of his words…couldn’t tell if he was still true. Now, he’s not here. I can’t even talk to him for a retrospective.

Is _that_…what _really_ happened when our bond was broken? Did this Veran woman actually even _do_ anything? Or was it all a ruse, to isolate me and _keep_ me from contacting anyone? Kaya _knows_ how much I love Tetra…_everyone_ does. I haven’t exactly made a secret of it. I couldn’t if I tried! He would be able to predict how hearing that she’s alive and in danger would get me to react. If she…if…

She can’t be…no. _No_. She…if she’s…if Guru says she’s…then Sheik has been lying to me this entire time, and keeping me moving and isolated so I couldn’t find out that…that Tetra’s…oh _Hylia_…

…I _trusted him! _

I…do trust him. I do! I…he’s…

Fisting my hands beneath the table, white-knuckled as I break out into a cold sweat, I feel my chest clench tight and my eyes water as the quiet murmurs from the rest of the mess hall fade into the nonsensical rush of white noise and static, before Guru’s voice rises to exclude everything else.

I focus on that steady cadence with _everything_ I have, and pray.

I don’t know who to – or what for – but I pray.

“As most of you know, during a despicable attack on the Palace grounds by a rogue cult of Sheikah dissidents, Her Majesty Queen Zelda Amira Hyrule and His Majesty King Anselm Horatio Harkinian were murdered last Freeday, Blumsmun second. Her Highness Princess Hilda Zelda Marie Hyrule and Lorulean Prime Minister Dirk Ghirahim were injured during the incident, while His Highness Prince Ravio Danek Chance, and Her Highness Princess Tetra Anne Zelda Hyrule are still missing.”

Something in my heart unclenches, and I find I can breathe again, but I still can’t process everything…can’t process anything, really. Tetra is missing. _Missing_. Not dead. She can’t be dead.

I would _know_…

…I…

“The combined T.A.R.G.E.T., P.E.A.R.L., and Rito Wing forces are requesting that members of the public come forth with any information regarding their whereabouts, or the whereabouts of Lord Lincoln Fitzherbert von Hestu the fourth, Lord Mallar Cameron Agahnim, and Sir Bruce Ashby Groose the Second, who are also currently unaccounted for.”

…am considered one of those missing as well.

But I’m alive, if not where I’m supposed to be.

That means Tetra is too, right?

Right?

That also means that someone is looking for me, and I don’t know why. Everyone I care about that could be informed was, and everyone I care about that I couldn’t tell would know who to ask. That means it was someone who either doesn’t know, or the person they asked doesn’t trust them with the information. I’d…like to know, and return my attention to the ongoing broadcast in the hopes of finding out. If it was Dethl, well, I wouldn’t be surprised that my staff would keep quiet.

Apparently all of Castletown has been scoured, and no one has seen me since the fire alarm at The Marigold sent hundreds of people flooding into the streets. I vaguely remember pushing my way through them on the way to the Seventh Heroine, but don’t recall the faces or voices of anyone specifically between Ivee and Azu in the hall, and Rotana and Muava at the burnt out husk of the Seventh Heroine. Then Nabooru. I definitely don’t remember this ‘Seldon Ventest’ that they’re interviewing in the clip that H.N.N. cuts to, but it’s certainly possible that I _did_ shove him out of the way and ignore him shouting my name.

I had other things on my mind at the time.

I _still_ do, but now all my worries seem to have cascaded into a jumbled mess and left me to pick up what pieces I can from the resultant rubble. I don’t know what to do to make _anything _better, and the people I’ve come to rely on to help me figure it out aren’t available. The resources I’ve relied upon my entire life have dried up like so much mist in the desert air. I didn’t know – I _don’t_ know – how bad it even truly is.

Hyrule is not limited to the residents and borders of Castletown, as easy as it is to think so, just like there are people that aren’t public figures who are still missing. I can think of at least four, from the house Sheik broke into. Ivee and Azu’ parents are two more. How many other people are unaccounted for, or…or worse?

Guru is still talking, and I force myself to focus enough to listen so I can find out. Just like Kaepora’s lectures, I can process later. Then I can do something. Maybe. _Hopefully_.

I _need_ to do _something_. I _have_ to. I just don’t know what, yet, and wait for the holes in the report to be filled in…except they aren’t. Large, _important_ holes, so very blatant I can’t believe that _nothing_ has been said about them with no reason I can tell to _not_ mention what happened. Like the impromptu block party on our way into the city, or our stop at Whittleton Manor.

Senza _would_ have said something…unless there was pressing reason for her not to. Unless she wasn’t asked in the first place.

As the segment progresses, there’s not even a hint of the mess with the Bulblins, or their King, the broken treaty, or our skirmish in the streets, and there _should be_. There were _witnesses_ – _multiple_ witnesses – and I know HNN isn’t normally so irresponsible in their reporting.

Are they?

Have they…always been?

What in the world is _happening_?!

The speculation continues, and it’s all I can do to listen while every iota of my being screams in protest.

“The unprecedented efficacy of this brutal, traitorous attack on our Royal line has left the nation desperately searching for answers, and here is what we have been able to determine so far from both an ongoing investigation, and speaking to witnesses present at the time.” Guru segues from one clip to the next, the interview turning through camera two and into a modified diagram of the Castle’s Great Hall. Hiding the precise location of the tunnels and niches and murder holes that everyone knows are there.

Not that they helped, this time. They may even have been used against the very people they were meant to protect. Who better than the _esclavin_ Sheik – trained to kill as children and groomed to be loyal, silent shadows – to turn on the Royal family the moment something better came along? Even I know that my favorite weapon to wield – a dual edged longsword – cuts both ways, but…

I also know that Guru’s reporting has been…off. Omitting easily discovered facts. Leading questions that aren’t answered, just left for the viewer’s own bias to fill in the implications. Harsh, incensing words, judgemental and implicating. My emotional reaction isn’t simply because I know some of the people his report is about, but the very language he is using to deliver it. The likes of which I’ve never heard from him before…this. Whatever this is.

Something’s _wrong._

Despicable. Unprecedented. Brutal. Traitorous. The only adjectives used – where _normally_ none would be used at all – have been negative, and applied to the Sheikah specifically…as a group, and not individuals. The very things that incense me about programs like _The Keaton Report _are being used on HNN.

That stops the stuttering indignation in my head, and gets me thinking.

Who benefits from this?

Politically…no one. I can’t think of a single individual in the Hylian parliament or among the nobility, and none of the major groups make sense. Not the Traditionalists, not the Monarchists, not the Globalists or the Socialists or Parliamentarians or the Separatists or even the Theologists. It has to be someone else.

I mean, yes, the _esclavin_, the individual Sheiks, and other Sheikah members of the Royal Household staff would have been present in the Castle’s Great Hall at the time. They _could_ have participated in the attack…but they could have also just as likely have been victims of it instead.

The _only_ way for someone like a reporter – who _doesn’t _know where all the spy holes and cameras and bugs were located to discover the truth would be to wait a few days afterward, by the smell…if they noticed it beneath the gore soaking into the plush Gerudo carpet in the first place. His Majesty had it installed just last year, in the traditional Royal blue.

Instead of passively absorbing the news, I lean forward in my chair and start to actively listen. Like my own Sheik told me to, before I did my absolute best to ignore, then deter, then force him away by being thoroughly unpleasant towards him. Unconsciously, and unconscionably. Yet he stayed…until, in my blind rush to find my fiancée, I left him behind.

Good Lady, I’ve been an ass. 

I thought I knew better, but apparently not.

I didn’t want to have to pay attention to anything but my quest to find Tetra…including him. Treating him as though by being the messenger, being _new_, he was responsible for everything that’s gone wrong in the world, since. As if his red eyes brought about the red skies. As if my guilt over the sudden affection and outright lust I had – _have_ – for him somehow lessened my love for my fiancée. 

I still love her. Of course I love her! I think I always will. _Nothing_ can stop that. Not even learning to love another, as I did with Malon…though there were certainly some growing pains in the process. Mistakes that have cost me friendships. Saria comes to mind, as does Ruto, and Niko was a close call. I learned, though, to tell the difference. It’s not the same as what I feel for any of our mutual friends, and _that’s_ different from my personal friends, and… it’s there, for Kaya, as well. That spark.

But even he’s different. So different. Vaguely uncomfortable for the newness, and that’s been rubbing me the wrong way, and making me chafe at his presence, because…

…because…

…because it’s not what I’m _supposed_ to be doing. Not what a _good_ person does…and I try so hard to be good. To honor my mother’s memory and my father’s wishes. To gain the public’s approval. Show the proper respect Tetra’s position. I shouldn’t…feel like this. For him. It’s not proper, not _normal_, and – if the Traditionalists are to be believed – not right. Not natural. Same with being left-handed. I thought that I was beyond believing such…such utter _crap_…but…I can’t help what I feel. And I feel _shame_. Not for loving more than one person in general, but for loving him in particular.

And I do love him.

I do.

Goddess, I’m so stupid. I _really_ don’t deserve him. Or his forgiveness. That doesn’t mean I don’t want it – or the privilege of his company – once more.

I will definitely have to earn it back, if I can. If I ever see him again. Either of them.

Any of them.

Goddess.

So I listen to HNN’s top story even though it’s no longer breaking news…and I listen to the things that Kaya – acting as my Sheik – would complain about, were he here. The things Tetra seems to understand instinctively. That which is hidden, the forgotten, the ignored, and the deliberately obscured…the gathered darkness of Hyrule’s deeply shadowed past.

The undertones of which I can hear in the report itself. Things that would have Malon shrieking and throwing things in frustration.

Listening doesn’t make me any happier, or any more secure of my place in the world and the people I share it with. It’s a betrayal from a source I never thought would betray me…that I didn’t know _could_ betray me. Unexpected and _painful_ in a way I wasn’t anticipating, and able to cut deeper due to my habitually relaxed guard.

It _hurts_.

An unfamiliar reporter that picks up the broadcast from Guru is _exceedingly_ vague about the precise timing, nature, and size of the small group that is thought to have infiltrated the castle, or how they went about it. Though the future security of the building thanks him for it, my own curiosity does not. The peculiarity – at once both subtle and infuriating – of the report continues with the “murder” of Hylian staff versus the “removal” of other members of the compliment of hires required to keep the historic and iconic building both running and renovated for modern comforts.

All _supposedly_ done with the aid of illusion magic that, of course, _anyone_ with the talent _can_ perform, but everyone _knows _only the Sheikah do so as naturally as they breathe. Everyone they’ve tested so far has been cleared, but a number of converters were suspiciously clean. Or suspiciously dirty. Or suspiciously absent from the individual’s person when in their own chambers, asleep in their beds…though the cameras are careful not to film that much directly.

Baseless accusations of regicide are apparently more acceptable than the potential for exposed nipples on a national broadcast.

With the speakers in the mess halls turned up and the acoustics being what they are, just because I can’t _see_ it doesn’t mean I can’t _hear_ it happening, just off screen. There’s no filming inside private dwellings, but outside in the halls of the employee residences is fair game. No knocking prior to entering those rooms is evident, though the startled and confused reactions of the residents _is_.

There’s not enough confusion that “their Majesties were murdered in the Great Hall” doesn’t illicit a reaction.

“Do you have a legitimate alibi as to your whereabouts for the time in question?” One of the uniformed officers asks one of the older _esclavin _that was probably initially part of the King’s pool, and the confusion turns to indignation and hostility right quick, even though his words are polite. Scathingly so. Obliquely calling into question the officer’s credentials, intelligence, and – nearly sub-vocally – her loyalty to crown and country.

Mercifully, the cameras devote no more time to the scene when the _esclavin_ doesn’t give them what they want, which I have to assume is an immediate confession, or blatant lie…though he does go silent very, very quickly. Off screen. Quickly enough that I’m not certain it’s voluntary. Then the footage is cut.

“As of the release of this report, no strategic leads have been found, and security in and around Hyrule Castle remains on high alert. Justin Thwomp, reporting for Hyrule Network News. Back to you, Guru.”

“Thank you, Justin. We here at HNN will be continuing to cover this story in the coming days, so please tune in for our regular broadcasts at noon, five, six, and ten for the latest information. Time for a quick commercial break, but when we come back: the funerals of our Queen and King, international condolences, and an update on the strange meteorological conditions that continue to cover the country.” Tapping papers that he rarely reads from – the teleprompter clearer and easier to follow – Guru turns so his profile is in camera three.

The spiel before a shift in programing lets me breathe for a moment before going still, bewilderment clinging tenaciously to my brain as I continue to grasp at the smoke my understanding of all that is right and good makes as it burns away in a slow, painful ember of doubt.

I’ve listened to the news for _so long_, trusted in their reporting – both unbiased sources and those that were blatantly so – that I never questioned whether or not the reporting _itself_ was something I should be skeptical of. A lie of omission, rather than commission. Or a distraction from something else. The news had all the information I need. Answers to the important questions. Why _would_ I question it?

Like loving my Sheik, I’m _entirely_ certain I wasn’t meant to.

Like my Sheik, I want nothing more than to turn off the television in a fit of pique…but unlike my own television in my private quarters on my estate, I don’t have control of the remote. A quick scan of the mess hall fails to reveal anyone who would, but does wonders for my hope in the people of Hyrule.

Every eye – trained on the screens in each corner of the mess hall during the broadcast itself – begins wandering as the first commercial plays, and the jingle hasn’t finished before voices rise in a chorus of quiet murmurs. Uneasy murmurs, gradually gaining volume. I – still – don’t understand most of the words, but the tone is uncomfortable, heads shaking and noses wrinkling in subdued, low-pitched discussions. A lot of them, nearly two for every table.

Normally, in a room filled with strong, fit, competent, intelligent women, I’d be comfortable enough to talk. Growing up – with my mom before her illness and Telma afterward, then as part of the Hyrule family’s associates and Tetra’s entourage – that’s what I’m accustomed to. My normal. But here…here is different, for some reason, and it makes me hesitate until I figure out why.

I’m _scared_. Which is _ridiculous_…but true. Because it's different. Because I have nowhere to run, and no one to turn to for help.

For probably the first time ever and definitely for the first time I can remember, I’m a part of a very visible minority. Well, maybe not very visible…only Humans and Sheikah regularly come close to being the same stature as us Hylians. Almost everyone here is Gerudo…most of whom glance in our direction every so often, and at me in particular frequently enough to make my ears twitch and the hair on the back of my neck rise. It’s horribly uncomfortable, and so when one of my tablemates stands up to leave, I have to wonder if I shouldn’t do the same.

Nobiro moves through the hall quietly – as I debate the merits of leaving myself in order to avoid further upset and staying to hear other segments with other journalists so I can know what _else_ has happened while I’ve been out of the loop – encountering no resistance until he reaches the door, where two Gerudo women with numerous sashes, combs, and jewels of rank cross their spears to deny him his exit in a single, unified movement.

A growling, snarling disagreement is held back by clenched teeth and implacable certainty as the entire mess hall watches, listening with bated breath to point and counter point and ends in point blank denial. It’s very clear that they will not be moved, and he had best not attempt to move them on his own. I should…

With a huff of resignation, Nobiro returns to his seat, and all the heads in the room swivel back to some nonsensical scent commercial as if it’s absolutely riveting, while every ear is pricked and every side-eye focussed on the scout for the squadron I’ve been assigned to.

Benja sighs, and shakes his head in a clear signal to Pirou, Robsten, Dillie, Gartan, Jora, and I that we should stay quiet for now, but we _will _be talking about this, later. Though he faces one of the televisions, Nobiro keeps his eyes closed as the news comes back on, his unwillingness to pay it any mind as evident as the guards on the doors proving that he must.

To be honest, that is a _mood_, and one that I can’t fault him for. I wish I didn’t feel as though I need to watch, if only to spare myself the heartache. I do _have _to, though, for more than Tetra’s sake.

They would have been my in-laws, after all.

“Today, the spirits of Her and His Majesty were returned to our ancestors in the sky during a private ceremony within the Hyrule Family Chapel on the palace grounds. Tomorrow there will be a ceremony to sanctify the remains with the rising of the sun, followed by a memorial ceremony beginning at nine. There will be a procession through every major city within Hyrule, carried out in solemn dignity, once Her Highness Princess Hilda Zelda Marie Hyrule has donned the Sacred Relics of our Queen.” Guru heads right back into the meat of the broadcast without so much as by your leave, and I put Nobiro’s defiance out of my mind.

She’s Tetra’s sister…and soon enough will be my queen. I should probably pay attention.

“Her coronation will take place in Hyrule Castle Sanctuary three days after the official mourning period has concluded.” Guru continues, and I blink. Where is the discussion of what will happen from having the “monarchy” part of a constitutional monarchy utterly decimated? The progress of the Lorulean sham elections played three times daily for a full year, and that was only to select a different member of their oligarchy to be their figurehead for the next seven years. At _best_. A full year of _daily_, _lengthy_ reports, all for the sake of a pre-selected puppet.

We’ve lost seventy-five percent of the direct line of the Hyrule family in one _day_, just over a week ago, and the report barely lasted five minutes! Giving me no useful information and an adrenaline spike at the same time…and every bit of it was from outside sources. How do they know it was a small group, and not an individual or a larger force? What kind of numbers qualify as ‘small’? How do they know the group of dissidents were Sheikah? That they are responsible, _especially_ if there’s no video and no witnesses? It’s as if HNN didn’t even bother to send a reporter to the scene…

…or they did, and that reporter wasn’t allowed access. Where’s Lynn Cal? Who is this Justin Thwomp? He seems vaguely familiar, but I can’t place where I’ve heard him before, or if it’s just the standardized diction, cadence, and delivery that reporters use to read their scripts, combined with an entirely forgettable voice.

“…at which time, she will formally take the ancestral coronation name Zelda the Seventy-First, Queen of Hyrule…”

I would have remembered a face like that, though, so maybe he had a radio show at some point? Most stations wouldn’t send someone that blocky and…_mean_…looking to get people to talk. Maybe intimidate them, but not to share confidences. He looks like he’s either angry all the time, or constantly constipated. If it _is_ constipation, that means he’s full of…of _shit_…

“The visiting Lorulean delegation here to discuss updating the terms of HTLFTA, including Lorulean Prime Minister Dirk Ghirahim, remains at her side, showing strength through solidarity in this difficult time.”

…and the more I listen, the more I have to believe that that’s the case.

“…of Holodrum, Termina, Lorule, and Labrynna have all extended condolences and offered support as Princess Hilda recovers. During her period of mourning, the Senate and House of Representatives will be convening to discuss Hyrule’s future before a motion can be tabled to the Zorana Monarchy, the Gerudo Chieftans, the Kokiri Council, the Rito Wings, and the Goron Patriarch, who will then consult the lesser tribes within their territories, in a process that may well take months, if not years.”

It’s…something, at least. Unsatisfying and lacking the nuance that I’m accustomed to, but it’s something. I’m disappointed that none of the political commentators or lawyers that have associated with HNN or Castletown University have been called on to discuss the constitutional consequences, but no longer surprised. It’s only Dinsday, and in-depth political discussions are usually reserved for Lanasday. I’ll just have to be patient and wait for tomorrow.

I hate waiting.

“As of now, over the last eleven days, there have been two thousand, eight hundred and nineteen known deaths relating to the failure of crucial infrastructure, including hospitals and emergency services. Crews are working around the clock to restore what they can as quickly as they can, and we ask for your patience. Help is coming, but in the meantime, take care of each other, out there.” Guru sighs in the most personal address to the public I’ve ever witnessed from him.

I breathe out slowly to mitigate the sharp cut of grief that those numbers represent. An entire town, _gone_. _Forever_. Guru has to pause and swallow thickly, knowing that each of those people were someone’s parent, sibling, or child. It doesn’t ease the pit in my gut or the ache in my heart, but it helps to know that I’m not alone in my concern. I’m…no civil engineer. I don’t know how to do much more than replace key parts or change the belts, fluid, and batteries in my car. I can’t help fix what’s broken, and that’s…just awful.

Awful, awful, awful.

“After the break, a quick word from the Honorable Lord Agahnim, Governor of the State Assembly, and an update on the weather.” Guru promises, and the next series of commercials rolls.

The chatter amidst the tables is louder, this time. Talk of holding a tourney to raise funds for repairs, taking hunting parties into the desert to cull the monsters so people can forage for foodstuffs and medicinal plants, using the Sand Seals to distribute what surplus the commissary has, offering to organize trips to the city proper for the doctors and medical staff, and the like. All made more difficult by the recent sand-slides and monster attacks both in the dunes and, just yesterday, on the outskirts of the city.

The closest, on the western edge, clearly trying the wards that the Lines of Sabak are famous for. The most destructive, to the south-east, causing a sand-slide that revealed ancient ruins older than anything archaeologists thought stable enough to survive as long as the ruins have been estimated to have been buried. The Head of Clan Ashai has already requested an escort to investigate properly, but Mistress Shabonne has declared any bids for the job will wait until after all citizens of Sabak are safe from the current threats before exploring potential new ones.

We may still need to have a chat, but that alone is enough for me to gain a respect for her that I didn’t have, before. Perhaps we’ll be able to come to an understanding quickly. Perhaps she’d be willing to help a desperate Hylian Voe search for the Vai he crossed the sands to find.

No matter what, though…we _have_ to watch the news. All of us. We can’t refuse…and that makes me deeply uncomfortable now that the news _itself_ is making me deeply uncomfortable. That’s a prime propaganda tactic right there, happening here in Hyrule…and I don’t know what to do about it. I can’t exactly bring myself to ignore it like Robsten is.

I just…need to know.

“Welcome back to HNN nightly news. I’m your host, Guru Gorman. Tonight we have the Honorable Lord Malladus Agahnim – Governor of the State Assembly, and the mastermind behind the bill to safeguard all Sheikah citizens from the ill-effects of Shadow magic through the use of state sponsored converters – has come forward with an interim proposal until such time as the peace Princess Hilda wishes for our beloved Hyrule is viable. Governor?”

“Thank you, Mr. Gorman. Citizens of Hyrule, I come to you with a heavy heart. The murder of our righteous Queen and King is a tragedy unlike any we have seen before, and we cannot let this horrific act stand, or the perpetrators go unpunished. As such, at Princess Hilda’s bequest, we will be granting martial law until such time as citizens may walk freely and without fear. To that end, we request that all Sheikah men, women, and children to voluntarily surrender themselves with their status cards to one of the regional intake centers in order to have their allegiances confirmed and their status verified.”

Oh.

Oh _no_.

Oh no, no, no, no, _no_, NO!

I…

…feel sick. Feel chills run down my spine. Feel rooted to the floor. Lightheaded. My chest hurts, and my fingers dig into the tabletop.

_No!_

I’m a _Modern History Major_. I’ve made a study of the last two hundred years of Hyrulean history, everything since the industrial revolution. It’s something that I will never fully understand, something that I _could_ study for the rest of my life, especially since every day brings some new piece of the story to light, but…I have studied it. I know the basics.

I’ve read _The Ballad of the Windfish_, and have deliberately fed the seagulls at the beach every time I’ve gone because of it. I’ve also looked into Lorule’s policies of conquest as a result of those readings. Hyrule’s history isn’t _clean_, but it’s better. Somewhat. We stopped sooner, at least, and put up memorials all along the route from Old Kakariko through Central Hyrule to the Mounted Archery Range. Pappetto Grove is now both a Heritage Site and recognized as the graveyard it became, though far too late for any of the markers or mass graves to bear names.

Just numbers, and a promise to never let it happen again.

And it’s happening again.

History doesn’t exactly repeat itself, but it certainly rhymes.

Shocked and dismayed and distraught, I miss the rest of broadcast completely. Return, numb, to the small room I’ve been allotted when the rest of my squadron herds me there with their bodies. Lie down on my too long, too narrow bed, and fret.

Worry until I can’t. Mourn the loss of justice, honor, and compassion. Vow – in my head and in my heart, to the Goddess and the spirit of the Hero – to do my best to restore those virtues to the country I love, on behalf of the people I love. Think about what could have possibly convinced Hilda to support Senator Agahnim's prejudicial, racist, and divisive rhetoric as her first act as reigning monarch.

Then, right before I go to sleep in an attempt to process everything that’s happened today…

…then I get _angry_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tackling complex global issues through fanfiction? Sure, that'll be fun! I said.  
Discussing social justice issues from two vastly different perspective? Why not?! I said.  
Forwarding polyamory as an alternative to love triangle tropes and character bashing? Bring it on! I said.  
Three years later, with everything going on where I live and elsewhere?   
Fuck, I said.
> 
> Thankfully, with unofficial Nano participation, I can write fix-it stuff. To the problems I have created in this AU, yes, but oh, the catharsis. Starting the re-write of Chapter 03 of the next installment for this series tomorrow, and trying not to break the world again. Wish me luck!


	29. You've Got to Put Your Behind in the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sheik gets a job and a boner.
> 
> A longer chapter - as are the next three, so grab yourself some coping mechanism of choice. You're gonna need it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean, if you're still here this isn't the worst chapter I've written for this series or the worst things implied but also OH LORDY HERE WE GO
> 
> Trigger Warnings: Racism, Wage Theft, Objectification, Reference to past Torture and Confinement,  
Content Warnings: Poverty, Systemic Discrimination, acknowledged and unacknowledged PTSD symptoms, references to eating disorders, white-collar crime and litigation, mild panic attacks (plural), cultural appropriation, mentions of chronic illness, references to food insecurity, references to survival sex work, homophobia, magic bullshit, even more magic bullshit, and, as always, language.  
Fuck Count: 46 - someone is a wee bit stressed, and starting to repeat himself.
> 
> As always, if I missed anything you feel should deserves a warning, let me know and I will update the (increasingly horrible) list!
> 
> "Italics" in this case are for sentences spoken in my made up Gerudo language.

.

If anyone had told me at the start of the winter term that I would be spending reading week framing Lord Korokshire’s sleekly toned waist with my thighs, I might have invested in an extra research journal or two for my classes, because he had a reputation for tipping well and a pocket book deep enough to do so. If they’d said I’d end up with my own suite within the manor after just a night of it, I might have chuckled a bit, because yeah, I _am_ that good, and I thought Lord Korokshire was fucking hot, if as unreachable as a mortgage and banked vacation days.

If they’d said I would be able to relate to _Princess Tetra_ in so many ways as to actually take comfort in her touch – let alone be in close enough physical proximity to do so – well, I probably would have ugly laughed directly in their face and discretely pinched myself, just in case. Then looked for the quickest escape route when I realized they were serious…only to come back eating humble-pie, knowing they had a serious gift of prophecy. Shit like that is worth more than a dragon scale, but twice as dangerous to acquire.

Prophecy. Ugh. Responsibility, and the inability to change anything, with a shit pay grade. Sounds like a bad time, and totally not worth pursuing as a career choice if given the option, even with the talent.

More common among Hylians, less so the Gerudo – as long as you don’t count their meticulously bred line of fat-ass Sand-Seals – and Humans, in _my_ people it’s always been rarer than a still mooing steak dinner and twice as bloody when it’s been too strong to conceal. I can only thank the Three that prescience is _not_ among the talents I’ve been gifted with. I’m a conjurer, not a prophet, and would prefer for things to stay that way.

The closest I come is with Nayru’s Blessing. As convenient as it would be, that _isn’t_ any kind of inspired foresight, but rather a skill that must be both learned and practiced, and is available to anyone who is willing to put in the time and effort. It’s nothing more than amplified situational awareness. The continual assessment and evaluation of an environment using deductive reasoning and active adaptability.

Right now, I need it like the Zora need water, and we’re in the middle of the fucking desert.

Even if I was still safely ensconced in Link’s bed – in Link’s arms – in the heart of Korokshire with all his adoring spirits guarding us, I’m…not in a good place. Not that any of us _are_, or I even know where Link _is_, but I am _really _not in a good place, and it has nothing to do with the desert cities built to cover ghosts and bones and secrets.

I can admit that much to myself even if I can’t admit it to my Princess or former _konlega_, no matter how much they stare. Leaving the small library’s restricted section was smart; if only for the sake of my dubious sanity. Even if the shell’s cracked, my mental state is a limited edition release, with a firm limit of one per incarnation. No substitutions, exchanges, or refunds.

The day is already stinking hot, but the sky’s clear and there’s enough of a breeze to make it staying outside for any length of time at least tolerable.

Running away was my fifth attempt at fending off the claustrophobic sense of impending doom, even if telling Tye where I planned to go and what I planned to do means it wasn’t really running away. The small tracking talisman he handed me in response means I’m not actually running away in the slightest. I just…needed to get out of the cramped room with far too many people that bring up far too many memories and have far too many expectations that I _cannot_ fulfill. Ideas and ideals that I can’t match. Fleeing from my problems yet again. Like I had a choice, what with Princess Tetra clinging to me as though I were the only connection she has left to her beloved – which is _true –_ but…fuck.

The Fierce Deity can eat my _entire _ass, and choke on the hair while He’s at it.

Thank the Three for Hina, though. Thank Nayru’s inspiration that had me list off her apartment block in the first place, and that Tye picked that particular location to run to. A week spent scurrying away from the Malice of Demise like cockroaches from the light together means that Tye _trusts_ her, and Princess Te…shit, she wants to be called Sheik. _Sheik_, of all things. Fucking damn it. _Sheik_…

…because that’s not going to get awkward any faster than calling your twelfth grade chemistry teacher ‘mom’. All the Saints and every Sage above knows I’ll do it, but _really_? She’s had the best education that status and money can buy, and _that’s_ what she picks?

_Really?!_

Just when I was getting used to being afforded the title I’ve spent my literal life attaining – a life that Eran _lost _for me to acquire it like some demented type of achievement in post-traumatic stress – I have to give it up, because she wants it. And what Princess wants, Princess gets…and now I sound like her father did, inside my own damn head. Excuse _you_, Kaya. 

Not that most people even know it’s a title, and I _can _still lay claim to my name…and my experiences. Those are still mine…as are my emotions regarding my experiences. Of which I have a…few. Dozen. At once. I’m having a nice handful of them right now, in fact, because breakfast is the most important meal of the day. You are what you eat.

I, apparently, am a little salty. And chock full of a variety of other seasonings to the point that I’d probably be considered emotionally constipated. I get feelings about stuff, okay?

Every free online self-help resource _clearly_ states that those are valid, even if I’m unable to express or publically acknowledge them. Consisting mostly of crushing depression, gut-churning worry, suppressed grief, the most awkward empathy, and a kind of simmering anger that leaves me as breathless as the pervasive anxiety my brain has running as a background malware program, fueled by just a hint of sheer terror that I picked up from being in the desert.

The _desert_.

It’s…a lot.

Nayru knows I can be depressed and angry and empathetic all at the same time. I’m fucking talented. Still. _Fuck. This. _

_Sheik _was my title, first! Mine! She wouldn’t let Claree claim it, and now she’d dead without any acknowledgement of everything she gave her life for! Even if she had, it’s _my name_! Who I _am! _And…and she doesn’t want me, even if I’m willing. Even if it would make the most sense. Even if it’s expedient and effective and everything I’ve ever dreamed of being.

The upside is that, once they're together again, Link won’t have to worry about whose name he’s calling out when he nuts.

Of course, _Sheik_ thinks Link and I are still Bonded. Knows what that fucking means better than he ever did. Thinks that I can track him through the inter-woven strands of our respective tapestries. And I could, if we were. But we’re not. And she thinks we are. I could pick up that much between the sniffling and hiccups, though by that point she was too exhausted to outright bawl. Or too composed. I was too exhausted to tell, even with her close enough that I could feel every tear soaking into my shoulder and every shuddering breath she took clear through to my bones.

My Princess. Stripped of everything she holds dear, and as frail and mortal as the rest of us. 

Fucking _damn it_.

Empathetic wins. Fucking called it, though I blame Link’s patron deity for it instead of my own. Wholeheartedly. The Fierce Deity may be methodically eating my ass like it’s a sheet cake and there’s a sponsored competition, but Farore gets a spoon, too. Dig in, bitches.

Then, _then_, after a few hours of smearing snot all over me and telling me point blank that I shouldn’t even try resetting my Bond, Pri…Te…Sheik fell asleep, and none of us dared to move her. Her first real sleep in days, according to Hina. Quiet, competent, continually itchy Hina.

Despite knowing her from Temple for nearly five years now, I don’t know what Majora’s done to fuck up her life so much that apparently _nothing_ phases her, but I appreciate the collected calm she deliberately radiated in my direction. A lot. Enough that I’ve added lotion on to my mental list of things that we need to get, because her chronically dry skin is actually flaking in the heat and making her scratch nearly constantly. Enough that she’s got blood under her nails, and the scabs probably itch, too.

Again, because we’re stuck in the _fucking_ _desert_.

Not that I have any real means of _getting_ anything on my ever-expanding list of shit and sundries, but navigating the streets of an unfamiliar city with no resources, friends, or legality is right up my alley. That everything is written and spoken in Gerudo just makes it a little more of a challenge, but not that much more of one. I have Muava’s gentle tutelage to thank for that, and though writing is still a struggle, reading…not so much. It’s all phonetic. If I can remember the six hundred introductory Ooca hieroglyphics, I can remember twenty-four phonetic symbols with multiple analogs.

The physical symptoms of an imminent mental and emotional breakdown are more of an issue.

I _ache_. My perivitae gland actually _hurts_, my joints creaking, random, incomprehensible chills running across my skin. Fatigue drags my steps, and each one of those throbs clear through to the headache I’ve been tending like a bonsai so it doesn’t grow faster than I can handle. I’m not sure if it’s nausea or hunger that’s scrambling my insides, though I can take a wild guess. The dahl and rice that was supposed to be supper last night was approximately enough for two and divided by six before I got there.

I can function for a while yet, without. I think. Unless I don’t have to.

Which gives me my first goal of the day now that I’m free of the mini-library and everything it contains…including what it doesn’t. Things like my _domine_, whose phone is silent, his Pirate Charm gone dark, Tears of Light unresponsive, and to whom my sympathetic magic cannot reach beyond telling me he’s both alive and alone, and feeling the last quite poignantly. It’s his own damn fault, running off like that. _Again_. Inconsiderate bastard. Relentless dickhead. Utter _spoon_.

I might miss him. Possibly. Desperately. It might also just be that I’d like someone at my side as I do my best to avoid any trouble while I explore the sinuously strange streets of Sabak for whatever opportunities I can find. Praying to Nayru to guide me, Din to give me strength, Farore for courage, and Hylia for the things needed to sustain life.

Food, for one. Technically for six, all of them undocumented. Fun times, eh Majora? Next time why don’t you take your deeply disturbing smile and Mask of broken crayon bits and go play in an active volcano for entertainment, instead of bothering us meek and feeble mortals.

At least we have shelter, thanks to Nabooru. Wherever she is now. Water, thanks to Hina’s jury-rigged Silver Scale and a chipped plastic bucket. A few days more, thanks to the ration packs I stole from Link…although four meals split six – maybe seven – ways doesn’t go very far.

Contrary to, or despite my ongoing theorizing, the power’s _on_ here. That’s a bonus I wasn’t expecting, and business is in full swing. I’m grateful, because that means restaurants should be hauling out the breakfast waste around nine-thirty to ten o’clock if I can find out where the restaurants are. Even if the bins are locked tight, sitting close by and begging usually gets me enough fucking pity for a bun or beverage. Din knows I’m one cock-block away from being willing to kill for a coffee.

So, Kaya, time to get your game on.

Shit luck on my part that I picked “_The Calamity Returns: Fuck, Now What?_” edition.

Being spook instantly puts my settings on Master Mode Plus, so that’s the first thing I try to minimize without so much as an elixir. Not that keeping my eyes down is at all difficult when the average Gerudo waistline hits me at the shoulder. My Spirit Orbs I can just pocket, and – even though it makes the tiny lizard brain in the back of my skull sit up and screech – I can take off my be-spelled arm, leg, and the hair wraps, and re-braid my hair into the simple tail I’ve seen some of the longer-haired residents wearing.

I don’t have any picks or combs or clips to put in it, but I’m not sure what any of them mean – and that the forehead jewels _do_ have meaning – and would rather avoid any incidents that could be caused by my ignorance. I can’t hide my face, or my eyes, or the color of my hair, but for once my particular skin pigmentation helps me blend into the crowd.

My height really doesn’t, but I know how to dodge well enough to avoid getting stepped on. The shape of the streets takes about a dozen blocks to get used to, their subtle curvature and frequent angles making my head hurt until I remember that the Lines of Sabak have to move _through_ the city in order to properly defend it. That the entire thing is one _ginormous_ Rune, fueled by the very thing it’s meant to sustain. Like Ancient Energy.

Or Soylent Green.

It’s funny – considering I’m thinking in mislabelled food sources and the fact that there’s no ethical consumption under late-stage capitalism – that the first restaurant I stumble across is part of the Mama’s Café chain, what with their ‘vegan-option turning out to be literal cucco’ scandal a few years back.

Funnier still that they’re hiring.

I take back the broken crayon thing I thought earlier. I was wrong. Majora’s Mask is obviously made of broken crayon bits _and glitter_, though I’m pretty sure the Fierce Deity ate all the glue. After sniffing it, because they’re _hiring_. Finally my borderline obsession with cleanliness comes in handy. I can’t claim O.C.D. – that’s not my kind of ritual set – but I can walk in the front door and ask for an application instead of opening the lid of the nearest bin and digging for treasure.

The local “Mama” takes one good long look at me with her lip only half-curled in disgust, given that I can see the stack of dishware piling up in the back over the top of the display case, which is designed for someone Gerudo height. She _needs_ a dishwasher desperately enough that instead of an application, I get an apron and a step-stool so I can reach the sprayer arm and buttons on the dishwasher.

Look at me go, my first “real” job.

Thanks, I hate it.

Five hours of standing in one place, scraping plates and rinsing mugs and sorting cutlery while being the first, second, and third place winners of my own personal wet-t-shirt contest gets me to my first break, which I take outside. Because fuck it’s nasty-hot outside, but inside is hotter and _humid_ and that makes my hair frizz badly enough that my elastic snapped into two separate pieces half an hour in, and it was the only one I had. I can’t even afford a snack with the employee discount – because zero times anything is still zero even at fifty-percent off – but I am allowed to help myself to the expired coffee.

Hopefully I can use my fifteen minutes to get enough of the bitter, lukewarm brew in me to chemically astral-project myself out of this Goddess-forsaken triple XL cat box of doom. Or just enough to stop Seeing the ghosts and spirits stranded here in layers of aetheric strata so dense I keep expecting their grasping hands and gaping mouths to latch on and drain me dry. Either or.

As always, no such luck. I release those that I can, but there are too many to count, let alone help, and I have to ignore most of them or risk losing myself for days just to get enough space to breathe.

At least the coffee here’s good.

I preferred the blend of beans Lady Senza’s chef had, though this is a fresher grind and a better brewing, even old and growing colder with every second. The triple espresso times two takes care of my caffeine-withdrawal nicely, and should give me sufficient jitters to finish the last three hours of dish-duty even as it supresses my appetite. Handy, that. I could have used the calories from the cream and sugar in a cappuccino instead, but…ugh. Even Kafei can’t take more filler in his cup than what’s in a standard latte, though Hawa would ask for extra creamers. And it’s _hot_.

Link would probably like it. Or a frappuccino, which is more like ice cream than coffee. I can’t do it…but I can scrape bits of various flatbreads, fried vegetables, pickled vegetables, and a few nauseatingly sticky dough balls into my mouth instead of the garbage. Eliminating the middle-man _before_ I take the trash out to the appropriate bins in the lull between the lunch and supper rushes. Then back to the dishes.

Soaked to the bone, hair everywhere, and physically exhausted enough that I just want to get my wages and go, I realize I don’t even know what those wages are. Not as much as I’d make for an evening on my knees in the toilet at Ikana Bar, that’s for sure, but I…can’t risk it, here. Not with so many women looking for the good time that I won’t be, and just my I.D. card, Sheikah number card, and Student card for documentation.

Not with no escape routes, nowhere to run anyway, and no one to turn to in case of a bad date.

Setting the dish machine on one final cycle eight and a half hours after I walked through the doors, stripping off the sodden apron and folding it into the laundry, I swallow my nerves and knock on the small office door for the evening Mama’s attention. Swinging open the door with her toes, filing her nails, she glances at me then goes back for a perfect stiletto point.

“_What?_” Her choice of formality level is…rude, so say the least. Not at all superior-to-inferior, but more along the lines of person-to-animal. We’re off to a great start.

“_I would please have/recieve my wages for the day._” _My_ honorifics are deferential and appropriate, even if my pronunciation needs work and my vowels are all over the place.

“_Tch. A moment._” Closing the door in my face. Lovely. I’m not leaving without either the day’s pay or a guarantee of it, though, so I wait. And wait.

And wait.

Fully half an hour after I was done with the stack and finished clearing the station, just as the supper rush is officially starting, the door swings open long enough for me to see that she’s been curating the restaurant’s Chirping feed while I’ve been drip-drying. What a…peach. Following her to the front as she opens a till lets me see that she finished her manicure, too. Sponged and decaled, her stiletto points remind me more of a fungus than the forest she most likely intended, but really, what do I know about high fashion?

Not much, and not enough to be able to do myself any favors, honestly, but enough. Just enough.

Enough to know that _that_ is Sargon Dragonborne, of _Madame Couture’s_ whistleblower fame.

My brain cycles through everything I can remember faster than I have a hope of saying anything. He revolutionized the super-model scene when I was just out of high school. It was in all the _printed_ magazines and papers for _months_. You could actually see more than two variations of walking skeletons for nearly a season, with more than eight styles being regurgitated for a full year, afterwards.

Dragonborne brands made higher quality goods affordable to the middle-class by not faking out supply-chains with artificially restricted product availability. Anything with that label coming through a consignment store was always a good bet, given the quality of construction, though the look was quickly taken over in an attempt for profit without any of the reasons the original was worth the cash. Fuck, they _still_ print Gerudo-inspired designs on cheap, fast-fashion knock-offs to this day, thanks to him.

And oh, fuck, _fuck_ is he _hot_.

The intervening years have probably been just as awful to the models as they were before his tell-all report dropped and exploded with the pyroclastic fury of a career-ending meteorite for at least three C.E.O.s, but they’ve been exceptionally good to him, personally. _Exceptionally_ good. I don’t normally go for the Daddy-Beefcake look, but…_wow_. He’s _got_ to have been lifting the entire time. Speaking of which, uh…

…yup, no respectfully introducing yourself to a world renown fashion designer with a remarkable eye for detail when you’ve got the most undeniable of sad and awkward boners jumping at the chance to go shake hands. Manicured hands. Shit, those _arms_. That _chest_. Fuck, he _has_ to wax _and_ polish and maybe he’d let me check if his aestheticians missed a spot with my tongue if I asked nicely instead of just stared.

Close your mouth, Kaya, you know the drill. Cash. Get the cash. _Oh hot damn!_ _That bulge, it’s real! _No, stop it. Stop staring. Stop. Money first. And his _thighs_. I would willing let him crush my head between those thighs if it meant I could get just a taste…no, _bad Kaya_. _Shit. Fuck. Fuck, fuck. _The lighting in here is an awful florescent, his sirwal is baggy enough to almost be a skirt, and I still can feel myself choking on the shadow of his cock.

I mean, yes, I _know _it’s the desert. Thirst is a thing. I have a Silver Scale of my own, and I would _still_ like to swallow down that absolute unit of a…tall drink of water. 

Fortunately for my unchecked hormones and exhausted body, there’s the biggest mood killer of all just one step back to reality away.

“_Here, your wages for the day_.” Mama hisses. “_Now get out of my shop, and don’t let the customers see you._”

Apparently they still use real rupees here, despite the synthetically printed bills being easier to carry and electronic payments simpler yet…if easier to track. Easier to track means more difficult to bribe. The form doesn’t change the function, though, and even if a _living wage_ across the provinces differs, the _minimum wage_ throughout Hyrule sure as fuck doesn’t.

The one red rupee where there should be five _at the very least_ makes my heart freeze in my chest and my stomach sink to the floor. I’d take the two purples underneath the drawer insert instead of the remaining four red I’m owed, but instead of that – or even twenty-five blue rupees – she closes the drawer and locks the till. Leaving me standing there with a single red rupee for eight hours of hard, disgusting labor. I’ve made more in forty minutes begging in the mall food court. Much more in an hour in the bathroom at the bar. Technically ten times this for twenty minutes on my knees with a stranger on my back.

The hard edges of the stone cut into my palm as I remind myself to breathe. Just breathe. Twenty rupees. _Fuck._ Okay. Okay, change of plans. There’s got to be some sort of food bank around here, and I’m new in the province, so even if it’s like Castletown where I can only get three days’ worth of food every two weeks, that’s three days more than we have now. I have two hours before closing if I leave immediately in which I can make eleven kilometers walking, sixteen if I run.

If I _can_ run. My knees don’t really like that idea much. I’d get better distance if the streets were straight and flat, but I know better than to give in to my pride and take my upper limits as a baseline. Fuck, my efficiency might put me closer to thirteen right now. I don’t have much fuel in the tank.

First things first…where’s the closest aid agency, and do they allow skinny, violet, spook men in their doors? Fuck if I’m asking Mama, but Jasmine the sandwich artist, or Breve the barista, or Moka at the till are all valid options, and Moka’s close enough to have witnessed the entire exchange. She frowns at the single stone in my palm, and I can see her anger building alongside her frustration. The till is in her name, and she’s now twenty rupees short for the end-of-day.

“Lhod meh shi_._” The deep voice rumbles through my bones and makes me shudder…almost moan. Bloody fucking _damn it!_ This is a crock of steaming hot septic goat shit over fuck you pilaf with a micro-mint garnish. I could _almost _understand the Hyrulean beneath his accent, and once I get over the technical and aesthetic perfection in the placement of his nipples on his pectorals – flagrantly visible through the gauzy, sheer linen of his kaftan in defiance of the standard desert dress-code, I might add – realize it’s not an accent at all. Just masculine speech patterns being polite to strangers of an equal or higher caste converted to Modern Hyrulean syllables.

Obviously, he doesn’t know me. I’d like him to get to know me. Personally. Bend me over the counter and make me forget my own damn name. Mm. Yes _please_.

Sargon Dragonborne flaps his fingers at me in what I have to assume is an attempt to clap with one hand. I’d rather watch that ass do the same, but Moka knows what he said and what he wants and grabs my wrist to peel my fingers back and show him the single red rupee that I _wasted_ nearly the whole day “earning”. _Fuck._ I’ll be able to steal some cardboard from the broken down boxes on my way out, though, so it’s not a complete loss.

Or maybe it is. Mr. Dragonborne looks at my hand with disgust written on his features clearly enough for even a particularly obtuse paramecium to read, with the single red rupee forming the exclamation point at the end of the sentence. _What gall, you little spook thief!_ I can’t help the whimper that claws its way out of my throat when he takes the stone and puts it back in her hand. His hands are _huge_, and powerful, and his nail art much, much better than the evening Mama’s. A latticed ombre from crimson to gold, to match the rest of his jewelry and the waves of flaming hair. Well maintained hair – not frizzy at all – and styled in a way that has me feeling at once envious and far too exposed with my literal knot trying and failing to keep everything contained.

A powerful man, for all his politeness earlier. Not that I could doubt it. His fashion house is worth twice that of the three he destroyed with video, audio, pictures, e-mails, letters, receipts and documents of abuse, theft, and rampant labor malpractices. I know when I’m shit out of luck. When I’m completely out-classed. When to keep my head down and keep quiet. I’ve been an unemployed spook for longer than I’ve legally been allowed to work. _I get it_. You’d think it’d hurt less by now.

At least I got to eat without digging through the rubbish, today. That’s better than some days back in Castletown.

I won’t return here tomorrow, though…and will probably post some defamatory material on this particular Mama’s Café Chirping feed that’ll be the most explicit family-friendly language I can manage. No swear words. Nothing incriminating, even if what Mama just did _is_ criminal…and not from any of my normal Moblin accounts, let alone my real one, so don’t @me. Not that ignorant, despite the results I used reaching that conclusion regarding my first foray into the wonderful world of manual labor.

“Gyet Mehmeh.” Mr. Dragonborne says, approaching the counter with a fucking phalanx of suits at his back, and I use the opportunity to leave. Grab a box from the compost bin, tear off the flap on the short side as neatly as I can, and take the bruised tomato on the inside with me as well. Half of it’s still good, and I carefully separate the flesh from the mold with my teeth as I print my letters blocky, big, and clear. Keep it simple, stupid. Simple message, simple text.

** _WILL WORK FOR FOOD_ **

Doesn’t get much clearer than that.

Putting my sign next to me for people to read, tomato remains flung on the roof to stain the paint as it rots, I make a new account on the company WIFI and leave a much more complex Chirp that will probably be deleted within the hour, but it makes me feel better. Then I look up where the nearest crisis centers are, and check out the criteria I need to meet so I don’t get chased out the door. There aren’t many close by, and of those, depressingly few provide any services to men. Fewer than Castletown, which…damn. That’s not a record I’d be trying to beat.

The Friendship Inn is strictly for families. The Rose Beds are for the homeless with addictions issues, and being a pain-slut with a regular need for food and a chemical fondness for caffeine doesn’t count. Gan’s House gives me nothing more than the hours of operation, location, and a cute smiling sun with a crown for the mascot.

The rest are only for women, or Gerudo, or Hylians, or are blatantly anti-violet, which means that Gan’s is my best cough-only-cough bet, since I’m pretty sure Mr. Dragonborne won’t let me in to his place even if I followed him home and volunteered my services as a loofa. His security detail has enough to handle with the circle of rabid fangirls six boob-jobs deep, they don’t need to deal with a rabid fanboy that can make himself functionally invisible as well.

Besides, I’m pretty sure I used up all my stray-cat benefits with Lord Korokshire, and look how well that turned out. I’ve got to find _something_ to show for a day spent running away from the inevitable. I should have lifted one of the whetstones from the Mama’s Cafe kitchen while I had a chance, or at least an expired bit of flatbread. No going back now, Kaya. That chapter’s finished, but there’s the rest of the book left to read. Turn the damn page.

“Sheikah. Ketch_._” Mr. Dragonborne drawls, and underhands something that sparkles like it’s sharp when I lift my head. Haven’t seen any other Sheikah around here aside from the same ones I’m actively trying to both avoid and help feed – y’know, what with this being the fucking Gerudo desert at all – and I could understand that much through the unfamiliar inflections of what is technically my fourth language. Years of having shit thrown at me has my scramble smooth as silk, and I dodge the small sparkling stones as easily as if he’d granny-lofted an under-inflated beach ball and not five red rupees. Again, actual rupees.

Orange, though, not red.

_Fuck_.

Five of them. Five hundred rupees. No one makes _that _kind of mistake, and I feel my eyes narrow in response. For that kind of money…what does he want?

“Aye hev werk fer euw. Du tri tu kipe ahp, yas_?” _He chuckles, waving at his security so they don’t chase me off the end of his crazy train. I’m getting better at processing his pronunciation, and Nayru’s Blessing isn’t screaming at me, so I’ll keep the money and see what he wants.

If Mr. Dragonborne really does want to be my Sugar Daddy, I’m going to need to ship the groceries my service will purchase back to Nabooru, because he’s the kind of client I have nightmares about. Powerful. Important. Utterly unconcerned about the kind of damage he does, as long as he gets what he wants.

Plus, if he’s anywhere _near_ proportional, I won’t be able to walk once he’s finished with me. My theoretical thirst has practical – _logistical_ – difficulties that I didn’t need to consider when it was just me and my deep thots exploring the hypothetical taste of his skin on my tongue. The fear of what he wants with _me_ – and the unspecified things he could and probably will do to me the moment we’re no longer in public – is zesty on my tongue and a little acid in the back of my throat…but simple. Predictable. He wants me to follow. That’s a clear expectation that I can meet. Finally. _Familiar_.

For five hundred rupees…I’ll do it, whatever it is. Even if it hurts. Especially if it hurts. I _want _it to hurt. I deserve nothing less.

I’ve also followed him too far to return the money and back out now. It makes my stride confident as we travel down the angled streets more twisted than my own memory lane. Nayru’s Blessing keeps trying to get me lost in my own head for reasons that I can’t understand, keeping me quiet and actually fighting with my instincts the entire way there.

Not to run. Which would make _sense_. Fucking _run,_ Kaya! You horny _bitch._ Wisdom dictates that trailing after strangers in a strange city speaking a strange language without telling anyone where you’re going after they _gave_ you almost a week’s worth of cash at minimum wage is _stupid as fuck_…so I’m curious.

Why do I need to be here, in Sargon Dragonborne’s home, of all places?

Home, palace. Same shit different bricklaying.

I nearly lay a brick of my own when we walk through one of the grottos that are, apparently, entrances into clan compounds, and his has a Zora in it. A _Zora_. In the _deep_ fucking desert. Leaning against the tiled edge of one of the four pools with the Radiant Sun fountain in the middle spraying rainbows into the air. There’s…so much water. Being _wasted_. Aside from the Zora’s needs, of course, but even then, the fountain itself is excessive.

Powerful…showy. Almost gaudy, if not for the exquisite balance and execution. The whole thing sparkles in the sunlight, reflecting and refracting. Pretty, and ostentatious.

“Ah, MIpha!” He calls warmly, and maybe the fountains aren’t that excessive if they let the Zora move around in the fading desert heat without consequence. She shouldn’t be confined to a single pool like an exotic fish in a tank. “I’ve brought someone to help with our problem xeriscaping the southern garden. If you would be so kind as to direct him, I’m certain he’ll be capable of recognizing the issue immediately, and correcting it by the next time our merchant friend visits.”

Every word of his sentences is in perfect Modern Hyrulean, complete with the posh accent that only growing up amid the upper crust like I did can give a glorious specimen of a rat bastard…or their tutor. I don’t know which, and am not about to ask. _Where_ he learned Modern and _why_ the fuck he used that awful accent i…sn’t, either.

World doesn’t revolve around you, Kaya. More people in the Gerudo territories speak Gerudo than Modern. Enough of them that it’s one of Hyrule’s official languages. He’s also probably on about nine-hundred different corporate hit-lists. Don’t be a deliberate fuckup. Think. _Logic_, Kaya, remember that? Hmm?

Remember the five hundred rupees in your pocket?

Kokiri don’t do well in cities, or in the desert, or in closed spaces. That explains why Mr. Dragonborne’s been having trouble finding an appropriate specialist, though a Zora would certainly understand water. Her needs have been accommodated, and from what I understand, xeriscaping could pose a number of problems for someone who biologically requires a certain level of humidity and moisture to function. That explains why she hasn’t done whatever it is, herself.

She’s shorter than even I am, and has all gentleness, grace, and obedience of a servant trained from birth – or the victim of a narcissistic sociopath – as she unquestioningly follows Mr. Dragonborne’s orders to lead me without directing me through sandstone and adobe halls.

I recognize _both_ of those patterns, woven into my own aetheric tapestry as they are. That she’s comfortable and secure and _happy_ as she is means I won’t interfere, and bodes well for Mr. Dragonborne’s treatment of his staff. Meticulously dissecting the composition of her hues as we travel in silence can’t prepare me for what waits at the T-junction of our hall and another curving around the walls containing what I assume is the southern garden.

So far, the number of ghosts and spirits in the city itself has been around par with any other city – which isn’t great, considering Sabak is less than sixty years old and Castletown is over four hundred – but they’ve all been the _peaceful_ dead, _beneficial_ dead. They’re honored and remembered…inside the borders of the Lines. Outside is a different story, but _inside_ the Lines I haven’t see or felt _anything_ that would have clued me into the existence of one of the dishonoured dead, let alone one of the dishonoured dead at the magnitude of a Dead Hand.

The…wards must keep it contained. Must have kept it contained for _centuries_, sealed in place before the first brick of the first building that would be Sabak was molded and fired. Even now, those wards draw in aether at an astounding rate to _keep_ it contained and unnoticed, needing more and more power as the original seal weakens and loses efficiency.

Mr. Dragonborne did say that I’d understand the problem the moment I saw it. And I do. And I wish I didn’t, because now that I know, even if he hadn’t paid me, I’d _have_ to do something. It’s a moral obligation that I can’t deny. He probably wants me to refresh the seal, and I won’t. I _will not_ dishonour this soul any more than what it has already suffered. I will fight him on it, if I have to. And I’m _tired_. So very, very tired.

Not as tired as the Dead Hand on the other side of the seal, wanting nothing more than to simply be allowed to _end_. I recognize _that_ pattern, too. Whatever it was bound here to guard can’t be worth continuing its agony any longer than it will take me to untangle the charms, tags, fetishes, and sacred cord in the physical wards keeping it here and tormented. The metaphysical ones are tied in so closely to the physical that just breathing on them should release them back to the void…if it weren’t for the fresh seal on the door stabilizing the whole mess.

Resplendent Din of the Flaming Arms, Sculptor of the Red Earth, and Dancer at the Heart of the Sun, please grant me the strength not to slap a bitch. Or snatch his virgin Tabanthan Rito weave. Or just fling all five orange rupees in his face along with a fist-full of fingers and walk out, though I’m certain he’d appreciate my reasoning.

He’s an artist. The whistleblower thing was a temp gig, and the multi-million dollar company C.E.O. thing could easily be multi-billion if he stopped being even half-way decent to his employees and started outsourcing, but he’s a designer first and foremost. An artist. I could get away with knocking some of his teeth loose if I explained it was done partly out of pure spite and partly just for the aesthetic.

Okay, okay, _mostly_ spite. Like, ninety percent. The aesthetic is more of a personal touch, just for him, because I still kind of want him to ruin me and that would only be fair.

Maybe ninety-five, because the moment I force the seal – unwilling to take the time to fucking untangle each and every _saithr_ strand like I had to when freeing Link from Veran’s clutches when the spirit at the center needn’t be preserved in any meaningful way – the entire structure crumbles to dust. All of it, the rush of cold air past my face as the spirit flees for the Sacred Realm barely kicking up a breeze. The vibrations of my footsteps take care of the bones left behind with their Runes carved directly into the living flesh over a long enough period of time that the first whorls show signs of healing, and I get to see what she was restrained in this room to protect.

Maybe I won’t punch Mr. Dragonborne, after all. At least not much.

Reading what I can of the working – equal parts iconography and syllabary placing the artefact around the time of the Imprisoning War – maybe not at all. The coarse gravel of bone-dust over the finer, greasier powder of corpse-dust shifts on the sand-dust beneath my knees when I bend to pick it up – covering my mouth and nose with my shirt so as not to inhale any of it – and revealing three Spirit Orbs of pure gratitude in the process. Ignoring them for the moment, I reach out and grasp the flat disc of tarnished metal and intricate spell-work, and gasp as my arm _burns_.

Yup, still active then. Fuck.

Touching it, and feeling the power it holds…this powerful of a Quake Medallion could raze _cities_. Including Sabak, because releasing that much concentrated magic would annihilate the Lines as easily as wiping chalk off a slate with a sleeve.

Not the kind of violence I crave, even now.

Mipha’s gone, probably to inform Mr. Dragonborne that I’ve succeeded in my assigned task. Hopefully he’ll send someone to secure the space when he sends someone to clean it, because I may have been able to force the seal, but between the aether expenditure and this last shock to my system, that’s it. I’m spent. For now. I just…need to rest for a while. To stop. I can’t deal with anything else. I _can’t_.

Curling up against the steps now almost completely swallowed up by the sands and physical remains of one of the most horrific forms of the dishonored dead, the waning sunlight filtering down to warm instead of burn, I manage to tuck the Medallion into my shirt and send a prayer to whatever Deity is listening in the hope that I will sleep so deeply that I don’t move and accidentally bring the roof down on my head…or Hyrule's largest province to its knees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone has been wondering:  
Hina is based on TP's Hena, just older and more jaded (yes I have a fully thought out backstory, no, I will probably not write/post it)  
All the characters in Mama's Cafe are canon characters from Minish Cap.  
Madam Couture is a villain from Triforce Heroes.  
Mipha is one of the four Champions in BotW, and a playable character in Hyrule Warriors: Age of Calamity (eeeee, hype!!!)  
Sargon Dragonborne (previously used as a "throwaway" reference that was actually foreshadowing) is indeed a pseudonym for the Zelda franchise character most often associated with Power...and if you've seen the rehydrated Ganon fanart, well, just imagine him in something a little more practical but that is a definite call-back to his BotW, WW, and Hyrule Warriors looks...and have some sympathy for our poor gay disaster boy.


	30. Ayashi no Sabaku

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quest Log: talk to the indicated NPCs and attain: An Assignment, A Cultural History, A Weapon, Transportation  
Once you have received these items, rest well, and proceed to the designated battle field. Your enemy awaits.
> 
> If the Desert of Doubt is a Stage, then welcome to the Theatre.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: violence, gore, minor character death, canon typical monster combat  
CW: despondency/mild depression, discrimination, mild sexual harassment, derogatory language, patriotism (and a wee bit of corresponding nationalism), rationalization, the futility of capitalism providing the necessities of life
> 
> Italics - spoken Gerudo Link understands - which is a lot, he's been working very hard, and his primary sense/learning method is auditory, which helps...but...  
{Italics} - spoken Gerudo Link does not understand - which has consequences this chapter, unlike the last.
> 
> Grab a snack and a drink, she's a long one this time.

Waking up to the incessant beeping of the alarm I set on my slate – not a loaner like I thought, but another necessary purchase for the durations of my stay here – is _better_ than being summoned by Benja’s fist on my door…but not by much. My bed is still at once too narrow and too long, the sheets better than the standard set but still uncomfortable, my blanket heavy but lacking warmth, and I am alone once again. And upset, though not as angry as I was last night.

I’m still fuming. Very much so. It’s just simmering low in my gut and making me feel sick instead of being caught in my throat and verging on a roar if I’d only let it out. I went to bed _angry_ for the first time that I can remember, and miss my regular good night chat with Tetra all the more poignantly for it. My shoulders are tense, my jaw sore, and my teeth aching with the need to bite something. Hard.

The morning martial arts practice is a welcome release, and an acceptable way to redirect my stifled rage. I actually manage to work enough of it out that I can relax in the bath, afterward, though my stomach churns and my chest aches with the frustration that keeps threatening to boil over into anger once again if I even _think_ about what Hilda is allowing Senator Malladus to do to the Hyrule that I love.

For now, in this moment and from this place, there’s nothing I can do about it, so I stick to the established routine and try not to think at all. Try to keep from grinding my teeth and giving myself a headache. Focus on what is in front of me, and on what I can do, rather than things half a country away that I have to trust the rest of the country not to tolerate. We’re all in this together, after all, and just because something is _different_ from what I’m used to doesn’t mean it’s _bad_. In fact, it can be really, _really_ good.

Breakfast _proves_ that. Consisting of more flatbread – thinner and broader than what was served last night – accompanied by a savory pumpkin stew, green onion omelet, roasted Rushshrooms, and a thick tea, lightly spiced. It’s no waffle, but the crisp skin of the flatbread comes close, and for the first time in far too long, I feel both energized and satisfied when it’s all gone.

Before I can turn my tray in, though, the guards on the doors call the mess hall to attention, and I stand in place, mimicking the pose of those closest to me as best I can. The doors are held open in the sudden and complete silence, the guards tap the butts of their spears against the floor, and whoever the ranking person here is marches through.

I’m not expecting an old woman, only a head and a half taller than I am. Short – very short – for a Gerudo, or perhaps shrunken with age, and flanked by five other women. One of whom stands next to the old lady in the same way that I stand next to Tetra when in public. Her second, I’m assuming. The hall is so silent I can clearly hear my heart beating in my chest.

She waits until her presence has commanded the attention of every last person, from the Sergeants down to the dishwashers.

It doesn’t take long, but does give me time to note the differences in her uniform compared to everyone else’s. The blue and yellow patterns dyed or printed onto the Sergeant’s standard baggy black trousers are woven into hers, the linen at once finer and more thickly made. Despite her obvious age, the cropped shirt she wears hides none of the muscle in her abdomen, and the broad sash flung over one shoulder glitters not only with gold threads, but intricate beading.

I can count three separate necklaces, two rings on each hand, three belts, and not only a jeweled cuff gathering her hair up into a ponytail, but strings of pearls and gems and golden chains are pinned into and draped across her head as well, with a topaz glistening conspicuously over her brow. Despite being both thin and stooped, she carries herself with confidence and easy strength. The entire hall stays at attention even once she’s stopped.

Given everything else I know, and what I’ve learned over the last three days, I must presume that this would be Mistress Shabonne. She’s not what I first pictured when my Subrosian guide told me that I – or my debt, rather – had been purchased.

I still have trouble distinguishing how – functionally – the two are at all different.

“_Well then, my {loyal} ladies, it’s time for us to get to work on the {source} of this {persistent} monster problem we’ve been having. Vital {information} from a {reliable informant} means we’ve found a {practitioner of the forbidden arts} to use as bait, and we’re going to need every weapons-proficient warrior on monster {culling} duty once our trap is set._” Gravelly and harsh, I know I missed some of what she said, but I can understand enough. A trap for monsters has been set, and someone needs to deal with them.

I can help with that. Especially if other people are fighting, too, as long as we don’t get in each other’s way. That’s what the training every morning, afternoon, and evening here is for…but I haven’t had much of that. Only two days of group work here, in the local style, amid much larger people, versus almost two decades of private tutors and solo work before Sheik showed up.

I’m not used to working with one other person, let alone a lot of other people. Maybe if I pretend they’re new students at the salle, it will be easier to move _with_ the group, and not fall out of line. With live steel, against living enemies, that could get messy very quickly.

“_You’ll be working apart from your normal squadron duties under Major Tali, so see Sergeant Sumati for your {placement} and shifts. The rest of you will be needed to {conduct} all of our regular {patrols}, help gather the {spoils}, and to tend to our {wounded}._ _We’ll {maintain} these duties for as long as our bait lasts, starting at ten hundred hours. As always, double pay for the duration, with bonuses for every Amber Relic you bring in. This is the opportunity we’ve been waiting for, ladies! Be ready to work, and work hard!_”

Her soliloquy complete, Mistress Shabonne disappears as efficiently as she appeared, and talk starts up immediately afterward even as those finished with their meals queue up for their assignments. Placing my tray with the rest to be cleaned, I join the line, and listen as best I can.

I already know I’ll be sent out to fight, and am not going to turn down the opportunity to discharge my debts. I’d just like to know a bit more about the people I’ll be fighting beside, and, more importantly, what kind of monsters to expect in the field.

“_If it’s nothing but Leevers again, I’m going to be disappointed._”

“_I’d rather deal with ten Leevers than one Lizalfo._”

“_I’d rather deal with a hundred Lizalfo than one Molduga._”

“_Psh, no one’s seen a Molduga since the Hero of Champions killed them all_.”

“_Are you sure you didn’t mean a Moldorm? Those things are so {gross} that even one is too many._”

“_Moldorms are {slimy} as anything, yeah, but they’re {barely} the size of my leg!_”

“_Maybe if you ate more you could fix that._”

“_I just need to do more squats, though I could still {beat} you any day._”

“_Oh yeah?! You’re on! First one to three hundred wins!_”

Challenge issued, the two women begin a set of increasingly fast-paced squats that definitely shows off the size of their legs, each of them approximately three-quarters the size of my torso. Strong, and thickly muscled in a way that has me both appreciative and envious.

Sometimes, I wish my genetics tilted more towards my father’s barrel-chested strength instead of my mother’s compact, lissom frame…but then I think of how Malon sings her praises, of the way Kaya looks at me, and how well Tetra’s hand fits in mine, and am contented with what I have…what I’ve worked for.

Just because I have their attentions and appreciation now doesn’t mean I’ll stop trying, though. I do want them to continue to find me pleasing, and given what I've recently discovered about my own attractions...well.

The two warrior’s competition is a way to pass the time, and one that I would consider joining if I didn’t have four, possibly five new types of monsters to learn about, and a language barrier to work around. Benja is completely absorbed with their…uh, cheerful rivalry…and Gartan isn’t a fighter, so I turn to the next oldest member of my squadron for clarification.

“Dillie.” I murmur, trying to keep my voice down. “_What are Leevers_?”

“_What are Leevers?” _His brother, Jora, snorts. “_What are Leevers, indeed! Where’d you from, kid? Castletown?_”

“_Yes.” _I sigh, having been over this twice already, only yesterday. “_What are Leevers_?”

“_Wait, – {seriously} – ? I thought you were joking._” Robsten starts_. _“_No one running from Barriara’s ever tells anyone their real home, or their real…name…_”

_"_Lincoln Fitzherbert von Hestu the Fourth.” I bow, unable to hide a small wince at the irony. In telling the absolute truth of who I am and where I’m from, I’ve convinced everyone here that I’m simply a braggart and a fake. No wonder they’ve been so distant.

“_Holy Hylia! For real?!”_

_"Don’t be an idiot, Nobiro. He doesn’t look anything like that S.J.W._ _poster-boy._”

“_But…_”

“_Hold up a second.” _Pirou squints, tilting his head. “_Ignore the sunburn, the eyebrows, the earrings, the clothes, and give him a bit of a haircut.”_ Pushing my bangs from my forehead to clarify puts him close enough that I can see the moment his pupils contract and hear the hiss of a quick intake of breath. 

“_Oh, shit!_ _My Lord, I…_” Dillie yelps, bowing low and causing a scene that no one wants to be a part of. Especially not me. Not even on a normal day. I may try to live up to being born into nobility, and take my oaths as a Knight seriously, but that doesn’t mean I’m better than anyone else here. Especially here. I can barely speak well enough to be understood, and my table manners are childish at best. I’m _learning_, but still have a very, very long way to go before I deserve any more respect than the pot-washer scrubbing away in the kitchens. Thankfully, Dillie’s outburst has distracted Benja from the two ladies’ thighs and, as our squad leader, he has things well in hand.

“_Hush! Who you were before doesn’t matter here, you know that! Not your rank, not your family, not your House! In wearing the Black_, _everyone here has given up all _{previous ties}_ to defend our neighbors and our city._” He barks, and the murmuring of the crowd supports his statement.

“_Hear, hear!”_

“_You tell him!”_

_"Yeah!”_

_"Squadron Leader Benja is correct.” _Sergeant Sumati agrees, getting to her feet and spreading her hands out over the duty rosters on the table so they don’t shift at all. “_We are one House, here, {united} in {purpose}_, _and with the sand-slides, monsters, and now a {practitioner of the forbidden arts jeopardizing}_ _our city, we will need every sword we have.”_

“_But their swords are so small._” The squat challenger sniggers, looking directly at us as she does. The only group of Hylian men…a penis joke. And I thought my manners were childish.

“_You’re right, Squadron Leader Deltan._” The Sergeant nods, and takes an eraser to her roster. _“They are smaller. It’s so kind of you to _{_volunteer_} _your placement to help them out.”_

_"But…!_”

“_We are one House.” _Sergeant Sumati says, her voice brooking no further arguments. “_Squadron Leader Benja, you will join the main force under Captain Babi in the Ashai District at fourteen hundred hours. Squadron Leader Deltan, you’ve earned the Calyban District at eighteen hundred hours. Both of you are dismissed. The rest of you, line up.”_

“_Come_.” Benja orders, and everyone – even Gartan, who isn’t a fighter but just as essential to the group – falls in line as we leave the mess hall behind.

It only takes two hallways for Robsten to start talking again, and by the time we’ve reached our rooms, I have a better understanding of what just happened. The location and time of our deployment is considered better – even though all of Sabak is worthy, and the day shifts will still be stinking hot – because we’ll have more opportunities to gather Amber Relics, and eager buyers close-by, while being a district off from the _bawal kasanayen_…even though I still don’t know what that is aside from the bait for Mistress Shabonne’s monster trap.

“_Rest up, check your gear. We leave at 13:30.” _Benja confirms. “_Link, I have either a Soldier’s Claymore or Soldier’s Sword and Shield you can borrow, but if you lose or damage them, I’ll expect them to be repaired or replaced._”

“_Sir!_” That solves my most immediate problem, and as he unlocks the weapons cabinet to let me pick, I take steps to solve the next. “_What’s a _bawal kasanayen_?”_

He freezes in place for three solid, breathless seconds, and then sighs. I’ve shown myself to be ignorant in front of the entire compliment of City Guard, and am his responsibility. He should answer any honest questions I have to the best of his ability, and I intend to take full advantage of the fact.

“_It’s what the _Calamity_ was before it became the _Calamity_._”

“_A monster?_”

“A man.” He says, switching to Modern Hyrulean for my sake, and takes the Soldier’s arms from their racks and hands them to me, both sword and shield. “A man whose name has been scoured from the sands so that no one will remember his deeds, only his doom. One who consorted with demons, and used evil, soul breaking magic on friend and foe alike. Who called demons to this world and twisted animals into monsters to fuel his mad ambitions of conquest. The Gerudo and all who live in the desert will not tolerate another follower of that same dark path to live.”

More mythology, much like what I was studying in the Hateno Codices before all of this. Mythology that apparently isn’t a myth at all, but the tiny bits of ancient history that have survived the intervening eons. The Demon God’s curse. The Calamity returning. Different names from different peoples for the exact same things in our shared histories. Demons and monsters, in Hyrulean. Dark summons and twisted animals, in Gerudo. Remnants and Corruptions, according to Sheik.

I’ve encountered enough of both to not want to deal with any more. If the Dark God’s pawn has yet to gain their full strength, then there’s still time to stop this. Stop _all_ of it. Save everyone.

_...almost_ everyone. I’m certain that H.N.N.’s tally last night was incomplete. I’m not sure we’ll ever truly know how many we’ve lost to the Calamity’s influence versus normal causes, but…there’s time to save everyone _else_, show those doing the summoning the error of their ways, and help restore the country that I love.

“Where is he?” The guard will encircle the city, but Captain Deltan’s example taught me that some areas will definitely be seeing more action than others. If this dark sorcerer is the bait that draws in all the monsters in the area, then, logically, the more anticipated monsters, the closer I’ll be.

“Saula District, south-west of ours. Close-by, but out of our territory. Now, lie down for a bit. Rest.” Benja says, and leaves me to rest up and prepare to meet and eliminate the threats this misguided man will be drawing in…though I’m not entirely certain _how_. Mistress Shabonne was confident that using him as bait for the monsters will work, but didn’t explain _how_. Not that she needed to explain it to anyone else, my ignorance clearly evident. I just have to trust in her the way I have to trust the people of Hyrule to not abide by Senator Malladus’ divisive and discriminatory policies.

I just…he’ll be so _close_. If I can convince him to stop this – or at least ask how…_why…_he did it – then I’ll have a better understanding of how to _fix_ things. I can’t let _The Calamity_ just _happen_. Not when there’s something I can do. I start by looking up videos and advice on Leevers, Lizalfos, Molduga, and Moldorms. Their strengths and weaknesses. Get very little information in return. Feel Kaya’s absence keenly. Yearn for Malon’s encouragements. Ache for Tetra’s touch.

Practice my forms in the salle. Bathe. Eat a light lunch. Rest, even if I can’t actually nap.

Six hours – eternities – of waiting after we got the assignment, I walk with the rest of my fully armed squadron to the train station, and climb aboard the designated car.

“_Listen up, Ladies!_” The Captain in charge chirps over the intercom as we reach speed. “_House Ashai has kindly provided Sand Seal barges for each squad to get you in position as quickly as possible to support the squadrons already engaged. Yes. Support, not relieve. We’ve got reports of different monsters last night around throughout Saula, Ashai, and Isha. Mostly Ghini and some Cursed Stal, but that doesn’t mean the regular sand-sucking bastards aren’t out there as well. Each of you will have a fifty meter radius to tend, staggered, in front of the other squads already on the field. Don’t let anything through. Watch your feet, watch the skies, watch your squadron members. Call if you need help, and cut as many of these monsters down as you can.”_ She instructs, and I keep my eyes on the screens to get all the information I can.

It’s not much. I learn what a Ghini looks like, and that Cursed Stal apparently means floating monster skulls like the Bubbles in Whittleton Manor, but more monstrous and less humanoid, without the glowing aetheric field protecting them…which are sometimes attached to full skeletons instead. Skeletons wielding weapons. Hopefully hacking them to pieces works, because I have no idea how to kill something that’s already dead, otherwise.

I’m simply grateful that they don’t look, move, sound, or act like children. I don’t ever want to have to do something like that ever again, let alone dozens of times in succession. My heart can’t take it.

“…_ty Rupees for every Amber Relic you bring in. For the glory of Gerudo!”_

_"We stand together in the desert sun! Brilliant Gerudo, never outdone!” _As one, nearly thirty voices rise in what I have to assume is House Shabonne’s rallying cry…and the train starts slowing down.

Our squadron has the furthest to go, so we disembark first, and load onto the waiting barge immediately.

The Sand Seal barges are precisely what they sound like, shallow boats of woven shrub supported in the air by three evenly spaced Runes running bow to stern. Two very small people that remind me slightly of Kokiri and slightly of cacti drive the barge, one at the reigns of two happily barking Sand Seals, the other manning the rudder. There’s enough space for all of us to sit on the starboard side, but spreading out means the one at the rudder doesn’t have to adjust the ballast nearly as much…and then we’re off.

It’s so hot out, only two hours past noon, but the wind whipping in my face is nice, and thanks to the Sand Seals, the ride is both entertaining and smooth. We glide out over the dunes, the city walls at our backs, towards the dust storm on the horizon. Our two green-skinned guides fasten veils over their small nose slits and flat, lipless mouths as we near. Like the rest of the men in my squadron, I unfold and lift the collar of my tunic to avoid breathing in the sand, and close my eyes until the faint stinging has passed.

Looking back, I can see that Sabak lies low in the desert. The city is surrounded by a ring of shallow dunes which are, in turn, surrounded by true dunes. I don’t have the knowledge of typography, geography, or the Gerudo tongue to name everything properly, but the break we’re circling around is like a riverbed without the water. Leading both away from and towards the city, there’s very little to distract from the only deliberately built structure out here.

A squat sandstone pillar rises from the ground, and I don’t understand how big it is until I see the evenly spaced line of Gerudo warriors dotting the surrounding mountainous dune peaks, moving only as needed, protecting the base of the stairs spiraling around the square structure three times over. We move towards it at an angle, and Jora is the first to be dropped off behind two fully shrouded fighters, their pikes at the ready despite no monsters that I can either see or hear.

Dillie is next, then Nobiro, then Benja, then Robsten, leaving me with Gartan, Pirou…and one of the women that Pirou is supposed to reinforce, her leg wrapped tightly but still bleeding through the fabric that appears to have been chewed to shreds. Suddenly, Gartan’s presence makes a lot more sense despite his lack of proficiency with any weapons.

“_Leever got me while I was chasing a Moldorm.”_ She grinds out. Gartan cuts the strap holding her shin-guard in place and pours clean water over the mess, splashing liquid over the bottom of the barge where some of it leaks into the sand.

“_Hey!” _Our driver protests, and snaps the reigns, making the Sand Seals bark and jolt forward just in time for the sand to erupt with a Moldorm…and the Gerudo calmly skewers it on the end of her spear with a laugh of equal parts triumph and vengeance, followed by a yelp as her wound hits the side of one of the benches.

“_Sorry_.” The honest apology slips out, but it’s clear that Gartan is already bent over the wound and closing it with the softly glowing hands and faint chiming clarion of healing magic. Pirou snorts, dipping his hand in the fluid, and sprinkles it on the sand over the edge of the barge. When nothing else emerges, he disembarks, stepping forward between the other city guards as they all shift to cover the break in their ranks, and we move on.

“_Thank you_.” Expressing my gratitude for the lift to the two Zuna women, I too, scatter water on the sand to test it before stepping from the barge. I can’t resist patting the closer of the two Sand Seals’ heads. “_And thank you, too_.” The bristle is stiff beneath my hand, but smooth and softer than I expected, and the driver chortles out a laugh before snapping the reigns once again. The lady steering the rudder gives me a salute before turning the barge back towards Sabak, leaving me on the edge of a dune that becomes something both firmer and flatter only a few steps further on.

Thankful for the thick soles of my new boots and the airy quality of my clothing beneath minimal armor, I move out between the Gerudo warrior on one side and the Human warrior on the other, taking my place in the staggered wall of city guard – most of them born and raised right here – keeping their people safe.

Tetra would be proud, I think. I’m doing what I think is best, what I know is _right_, despite everything in me that wants nothing more than to selfishly abandon my post and find her. Find my Sheik. Get out of the heat, out of the desert, out of the responsibility of taking care of something that isn’t my fault. Standing tall, and waiting. And waiting. And waiting some more, despite how much I hate it.

Except I don’t hate it, really. I _dislike_ waiting. Intensely. It gives me time to think. I _hate_ the thought of what is happening elsewhere while I wait here. How Senator Malladus – Mallar’s father – decided to blame the chaos of the Calamity on the Sheikah people, and the murder of Queen Zelda and King Anselm on the most loyal of them. How quickly the rest of the population was to believe the first easy answer they were given.

I can hear the women behind me gossiping about it now. Aside from the occasional monster, there’s nothing else to listen to. I can’t avoid it, and I can’t cover it up by talking over them, because then I might miss something…a monster within my fifty meter radius, or a madman to the south-west. Most likely on the pillar around four blocks – perhaps a thousand meters, perhaps a bit more – in the distance, since there’s more warriors surrounding the area than anywhere else.

The monsters here on the ground are easy pickings between myself, the Gerudo, and the Human, with their activity as sporadic and sparse as they are. There’s hardly a break in the speculative conversation when a Moldorm springs up between them and is cut down.

Further from the city, I get two before they move out of my range and into theirs. Two Amber Relics less than an hour into the shift. I just need half a dozen more to repay my debt, and am heartened by it. Maybe – despite the sunburn I’m beginning to feel through my clothes and the elixir and be-spelled jewelry – this isn’t so bad. I’ve been burned before. I’ll be burned again. The sooner I get out of the heat, the sooner I can be free to do what needs to be done to stop all of this.

I can do something like, oh, maybe storm the pillar, and hear what the villain there has to say. I expect it will be something along the lines of the way the Lorulean Delegation spoke of the non-Hylian races, though much less subtle. Perhaps as graphic as Kaya can be when he’s upset, though tending towards compounding hatred rather than expressing absurdity. Purely malicious…evil for evil’s sake. _Most_ of the people I know aren’t capable of the kind of rancor needed to willingly claim they’ve invoked the God of Resentment, Wrath and Destruction, let alone actually _do _it.

I don’t understand how _anyone_ could. Even the blatantly racist conversation between the two women behind me is understandable…the death of the Queen and King is big news. They’ve never met a Sheikah, and have made no effort to learn anything aside from what they’ve been taught. As far as I can tell, all of that is exaggeration, speculation, and lies. Even then, they aren’t using any of the more profane slurs I’ve heard, and seem to agree that an entire people can’t be held responsible for the actions of a few.

That’s better than many of the discussions I’ve heard in the halls of the university, or even from Groose during a spar – let alone on my Chirping feed – and I resolve to pay them no mind. It’s not my place to scold them, I can’t teach them, and it’s not worth fighting over right now. Not when there are more and more hisses and cries and whispers coming from the landscape around us. From this angle, ears pricked towards the dunes and away from the mountain ridges, I know something is wrong when a flock of dark birds take to the sky.

After a raucous bought of laughter over one of their friend’s actions at the bar last Freeday, the Gerudo inhales deeply and freezes.

“_Wait, there’s something out there_.” She growls, shifting her grip on her spear from a relaxed nonchalance to a wary alertness that the Human and the other Gerudo further on quickly mimic. Murmurs ripple down the line as others pick up on it as well, though I can’t discern what it is they’ve sensed, or why. Not until I realize that the desert has gone silent aside from the hiss of dunes moving slowly in the prevailing winds.

That hiss grows louder, the pitch lower. A chorus of hisses. From the east.

Turning my back on the odd pillar, I turn just in time to see an _entire dune_ explode as first dozens, then hundreds of Leevers burst forth, shrieking. Overwhelming the waiting warriors by the sheer number of prickly, spiked bodies churning the sand, coming from _between _the defensive line and the city.

I understand immediately why the desert people prefer pikes, spears, and scimitars instead of the standard A.R.G. wands and swords the moment the city guards recover from the surprise and begin to slaughter the Leevers. Pikes and spears pierce their thick, almost rubbery shells and don’t get caught in the spines, while the scimitars curved edge slides straight through. For every person that’s injured beneath the rush, a dozen Leevers die, and Amber Relics scatter on the sand.

By the time the wave reaches Jora, the wave of ankle-shredding monsters has been halved…and then I don’t have to wait any longer. The Leevers are _here_, and provided an excellent distraction from my thoughts.

I catch five with my sword before the wave passes. The women before me get nine and eleven, respectively. No one that I can see is injured, but something is still very, very wrong, because the Leevers _aren’t_ surging to their master’s defense like they were supposed to. They bypass the tower entirely, not even slowing down, shrieking the entire time.

Running. They’re _running_ from something, and ignoring the baited trap entirely. Leaving their dead and injured behind where they fall to the city guards without so much as a pause in their headlong flight. Their shrieking is nothing like the Tormentor Bloat’s enraged screeching over the destruction of her egg sacks. Shrill, gasping, breathy. Fear, not anger.

What could frighten a Leever?

“_Ah!_” The pained shriek from the Human warrior behind me has me turning sharply – my shield instinctively up – just in time to see her fall. A split second later, I catch the tip of the dun-colored Lizalfo’s spear aimed at my gut, knocking it aside with my shield, my heart in my throat and startled. It’s _fast_, recovering for a second jab before I’ve secured my footing, knocking me a full, unintentional step back.

I won’t let it have any more ground than that, and turn my retreat into a retaliation, remembering the videos I watched, Sheik’s…_descriptive_…words, and using everything I can to my advantage. As it circles me – the first attack and follow-up having failed to bring me down – I observe it, and prepare for the next step in our deadly dance. It’s strong. I’m smarter. It’s bigger. I’m better trained. It’s ugly, and violent, and aggressive. I have people I need to protect. It’s fast.

I’m faster.

The Lizalfo lunges, crude spear thrust forward. I step into the blow, deflecting the trajectory with my shield but not slowing the inertia behind it, and let the monster run itself onto my borrowed blade. It dies, and I have no more Amber Relics I need to collect. Anything else at this point would be a bonus…or keep me from falling right back to where I started.

The Human warrior groans, still alive, and her Gerudo partner – shield-mate, from the sound of what sings between them – rushes to her side, pulling a bottle of potion from the pouch at her thigh.

“_Drink this, my jewel.”_

“_Oh, Seven, love! You know I’m not fond of potion.”_

_"I’m fond of your leg, Jules. Come, drink, and we’ll get you off the field.”_

_“I wanted a few more Ambers, for Lover’s Day.” _She pouts, but stops arguing and drinks the potion while her shield-mate sends up a flare for assistance. I keep my eyes on the sand and ears on the wind, though I’m unable to keep the blush from my face at their affectionate tones, or the yearning in my heart for my own lovers…none of whom I know for certain are safe, or even where they are. Not one.

Lover’s Day is in a week, and for the first time since I can remember, I haven’t planned _anything_ for any of them. I haven’t even thought about it. With the world crumbling beneath my feet…

…it is.

Or moving, at least.

The trembling gets stronger and stronger until it seems as if the entire Gerudo province is shaking. From the highlands through the flatlands to the wasteland and back. My teeth go from clenched to an uncontrolled rattle in my skull, and my knees shudder all the way down until I’m kneeling on sand and rock and hard packed clay.

The barge from the city that was responding to the emergency flare disappears in an explosion of dirt that flings it high into the air. High enough for me to see a gaping maw open wide…and snap closed, swallowing it whole, falling back to the ground.

The ground surges up with a deep bass roar in a rolling wave of earth large enough that I have to close my eyes to avoid being blinded by the squall of debris, and a surging warm layer of sand covers my feet from toe to ankle….displaced by something truly massive in scale. It’s _huge._ Breathtaking. Gargantuan. _Monstrous._

“_MOLDUGA_!!!” Someone shrieks, and then the most highly-trained, well-disciplined group of warriors this side of the Great Gerudo Skeleton scatter like the shards of a shattered cup…only to be picked off one by one by a beast that travels below the sand, moving faster than the fastest person can run.

I – we – need to get to higher ground. _Solid_ ground. Stone, not sand, where the Molduga cannot move. Where it can’t hunt us like a wolf hunts mice. 

The pillar.

I’m not the only one that has the idea, but I am one of the few that has a choice. Do I leave Jules to her fate? Her and her shield-mate, because I know that they won’t leave each other. She _can’t_ run, the dose of red potion enough to slow the bleeding and save the limb, but not nearly enough to support her weight for minutes yet. We don’t _have_ minutes. If I stay, if I let them slow me down…

No. I’ve made _that_ mistake before, and am paying for it even now. I won’t make it again.

_No one_ gets left behind.

“Get on!” I shout, laying the Soldier’s shield face down on the sand and tying my rank-sash around the brace, pulling it through the handle. They both stare at me, and I realize my mistake. “_Get on!_” Saying the same thing in Gerudo has them scrambling in place. I take one end of the sash in hand, the Gerudo warrior grabs the other, and we run, dragging her shield-mate behind us.

I need to take two and a half steps for every one of hers, but we make it work, and dash towards the pillar as quickly as we can, even as the Molduga chases down another warrior, breaching the sand only to feed. I know what frightened the Leevers. If I had the leisure to think about it, I’d be terrified.

I don’t. All I can do is run.

Feel the hair on the back of my neck rise, despite the sweat pouring down.

Yelp at the lightning strikes from clear skies, _far_ too close for comfort, spraying sand and shards of still molten glass into the air. I don’t stop. Neither does the warrior at my side, voices shouting and shrieking ahead and behind. We run.

The Molduga bellows…but doesn’t stop, either, its appetite barely whetted.

“_Go, go, g-ah!”_

_Crunch_.

Pirou. That was Pirou.

I run.

Run until running turns to climbing stairs that crumble beneath my feet, slick with sand and loose stones. Help get Jules onto her shield-mate’s back. Leave my shield so I can climb. Climb faster. We have to go _faster_.

“_Steady…now!” _Four Gerudo, three women and one of the rarer men, stand at the edge of the pillar, their fingers arcing together in a practiced tandem so smooth I can’t distinguish a difference in their collective crisp staccato snap.

I do, however, know that voice.

Harsh from screaming, dry and raw and pained. Mine isn’t much better, the name torn from my lips before I can censure myself. Before I even think to try. Before I realize that I probably should.

“_Kaya!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely happy with this chapter, but it did what it needed to do so I'm posting anyway. I am, however, happy with the cliffhanger. Please enjoy that while you wait for two weeks to find out what the (insert keyboardsmash)??!?!?!? happened.  
>:3  
In other news, I have a P.S.A. - Healthcare worker fatigue is real, y'all. Be safe. Stay kind.


	31. Viaticum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sheik POV.   
FC:19 Poor boy's seen so much that even swearing isn't doing it for him anymore.   
Starts with a pseudo-flashback, and takes place partially previous to the last chapter, then moves to meet-up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: vague references to minimal and unintentional cannibalism, not so vague references to suicidal ideation, explicit intrusive thoughts, factual observation of personal torture and related dissociation
> 
> CW: nightmares, xenophobia, classism, references to past child sexual abuse, internalized body-shaming, confinement/restraint, emesis, language, a whole spiel of OSHA violations, more magic bullshitting, I may have chewed through my entire bedframe from screaming into my pillow as I wrote this, possibly
> 
> As this is the second longest chapter by just under two hundred words, definitely grab yourself a beverage and maybe a snack, and an emotional-support cucco. Possibly a box of tissues. Maybe a garbage can.  
Got something to hydrate with? Yeah?  
Are you ready for emotional, physical, mental, spiritual and textual pain?  
Me neither, let’s go!

.

“_Kaya!”_

Place the bristles firmly, evenly, and with intent. Allow the aether to gather within each _saithr_ strand. Feel them vibrate with saturation until they glow. Transfer and bind. Rise with the breath. Accent the cresting form. Contain your strength. Extend across. Exhale. Balance the weight. Seal the line.

“_Kaya, come on_!”

Close the productive cycle of the Light radical in the final house of the boar. Restrict the parameters. Dampen the flow. Release. Return. Check your work.

“_Kayaaaaaaa!”_

Just like in Lokomo Anjean’s _A Primer on Warding_. Yes. Good. Leave it dry. Clean your brush.

“_Ka. Ya. Ka. Ya. Ka. Ya. Ka. Ya_.”

Ignore Cloyne. I have time, and Mrs. Marie will be sad-proud-tired if I don’t clean up after myself in the for-everyone-indoor-space. Specialty ‘cause I’m not supposed to use the good talisman paper, charge the ink, or touch the channeling brushes without an adult to super vice. It’s dangerous to do it, but Zuta needed…

“Why are you still here, luv? It’s nearly lunch time! Aren’t you hungry?” I am hungry – I am _always_ hungry, but eating more is bad-greedy – and Mrs. Marie is sneaky. I didn’t sense her coming at all. Rude. If I was still writing, I could have maked a mistake, and then the good talisman paper _would_ a be wasted. I was even super careful! I put up my personal wards as big as I could make them so nobody would bug me. Like Cloyne, or Yeran. They _always _bug me.

They just want to share the good things, not like a real life bug. They don’t make my skin crawl. They’re not…um. Um. Skitter? No, that’s not right. Skin-shake. Spine-cold. Curl-up-get-away. Um. Was it…_creepy_! Yeah! They’re not creepy. Senator Malladus just watches. He doesn’t hide very good, just watches all the time and makes me want to hide, but I knowed he’s there.

Mrs. Marie is _sneaky_. She got inside and I didn’t feel a nothing. I’m _good_ at wards. Not good as Armes, but good! Ward-breaking is for fighting! Mrs. Marie teaches us words and art! Why would she teach _that_ if she can fight? Unless…she likes words and art better? I know I do, but I need to do both. Need to be the _best_ at both, so if Mrs. Marie can do it, then I can, too!

_She’s so cool! _Almost as cool as Grand Master Impa! I’d totally win at hide-and-seek if I could do that, expect – _except_ – when I look at her day-after-day-after-day same-same patterns of waving soft and warm happy-excited-joy wiggles to see _how_ she was such a sneak, she’s a monster instead.

Not like the monsters we killed _ikora…_yes-sir-day. That one was called a Chu-chu, and was all water-rolling-eat-eat-eat and make-it-stop-moving, with only three layers. This one still _looks_ like Mrs. Marie on the skin level, but her layers is wrong, and her weaving is _messy_. It hurts to look at…a core-up-shun. One I don’t know the name of, and not having a name for something makes it scarier, so we’re supposed to learn all the names and not be as scared.

A little scared is okay. All scared is bad. All scared means mistakes, and the Sheik don’t make mistakes.

I _am_ gunna be a Sheik, like Master Impa says…but I’m not one, yet. I gots a lotta training to do, first. Lotta learning. More monsters and spells and ways to fight and how to protect Prince Eran from bad things that none of the growned-ups will tell me, yet. I’m s’posed to learn when I’m older and have all the monsters memoriesed.

I don’t know the name to use for the Mrs. Marie monster, and the more I look at it, the more scareder I get. Even like the other core-up-shuns, this one is not _right, _the layers keep switching…and it keeps getting closer no matter how many wards I put up. I only know the two so far, but they should slow her down and they don’t! She keeps coming closer! I don’t like it!

The Mrs. Marie hungry-mine-hungry-hungry-silence monster has all (too many!) her arms out and wiggling with too many (too many!) bends as she tries to give me a really big hug. Big enough that I would be all smushy…and I don’t want to hug a _monster_. She’s _scary_, and her too-many-bending-part arms tie me up so I can’t move. I can’t move! I…

…wake-up with a scream caught in my throat, tangled in my own hair. _Choking on _my own hair, and dirtier than the underside of the dish station at Mama’s Café was before I cleaned it. Shuddering from neck to knees and back again as I try to shake off the lingering sleep-paralysis and breathe.

Mr. Dragonborne. Dead Hand. Quake Medallion.

_Fuck_.

The last is still firmly ensconced between my skin and my shirt, bumping against my converter, and I carefully tuck the fabric into my pants so it won’t be jostled before tending to my hair. As best I can. Without moving and tangling myself further.

Goddess, what a fucking mess. There’s bone-grit in my teeth, too, and that has me nearly retching, except I’m too dry to retch. I can rinse, though, and do. Profusely. Spit instead of swallow for once, over and over again until I can taste something other than sand and dirt and dust and death. Just in time for the first thing I remembered from yesterday’s shit list to drop by and possibly shit on me even more. Metaphorically. Fucking nightmares.

Luckily, there’s a perfectly understandable distraction just on the other side of the door.

Yesterday, Mr. Dragonborne checked all my boxes for a perfect five star D.I.L.F review on every dating Rune known to exist. What with his hair expertly coiffed, kaftan impeccably fitted, and jewelry glittering without being gaudy…mm, yes. Now – with the sun barely up, brushing his silky unbound hair, the bare, waxed chest, and carrying a good-morning chub the size of my forearm in his loosely secured sirwal – he’s a vision of a masochistic fantasy I didn’t even know I had. He would fucking _break_ me, and I _still_ can’t help wondering what it would be like if he’d just pin me down and use me. Make me forget everything but the feeling of his cock spearing into me, ripping me open, if only for a while.

There’s only one small detail that keeps me from begging for it.

He’s not interested in making it a reality. At all. Not even a bit, and that more than anything has me waving goodbye to what was shaping up to be a really _good_ morning stiffy faster than I could wrap my arm over his shoulder and say ‘…hey’. If I could reach his shoulder without a step-ladder in the first place, that is. It probably doesn’t help my case that I probably look like I’ve been a good three hours in the hands of a self-taught taxidermist, and smell like I _should _have been there a week earlier. Or at least on ice.

Moving to sit properly instead of staying sprawled out in the dirt like a closeted bisexual on an un-upholstered arm chair has my lower back aching like that fantasy actually happened, and I can’t help but let out a hiss of pain as my vertebrae adjust to being a spine again. He blinks, and actually looks at me.

“Why are you still here?”

Fuck, I forgot what his deep-voiced rumble did to my insides. Maybe I don’t need his dick to do it, as long as he just keeps talking.

“Forgive me, Gan.” Mipha, small voiced and pathetic – entirely on purpose, I might add, and take that indication about his temper with gratitude – murmurs as she grovels. “It’s my fault. He was exhausted after not only clearing the mess, but cleaning out the vermin as well, so I let him sleep here overnight without your permission. I have overstepped.”

“Mipha_…_” Sargon Dragonborne – or Gan as she called him, and I’m not sure if that’s just a Zora thing, a regional dialect thing, or a nickname – sighs, his colors muddied and frustrated but holding none of the anger or resentment I’m expecting. _“…_stop it. I told you, you don’t have to do that with me.”

“Master said_…_”

“Mipha_._” Sargon snaps, and she quiets the same way I used to back in high school. Before I learned that what Rusl and I were…what Rusl was doing with – _to_ – me, was wrong. Even if I liked quite a bit of it. Even if I _still_ like it, sometimes. It doesn’t make that initial reaction any less visceral. That freezing in place, utterly and completely, barely daring to breathe. “Stop. It’s fine. Show the Sheikah where the baths are, have Bozai take his measurements, and then bring him to the dining hall. I would break my fast with him as guest of this house.”

“Yes, Gan.” She still trembles before him, but…maybe I don’t need to? Not as much, anyway. Not that I’ll cause her trouble by disobeying, especially if I get a bath. A private bath, at that, with enough hot water to scour the sweat and dust and dirt and ashes of a long-dead, mangled, tortured, and re-animated corpse from my skin. Brush the tangles from my hair. Shave the sparse stubble from my chin, the electric razor not providing the same type of temptation that the disposable blades do. As always, being physically clean helps me feel as if I’m not _completely_ reprehensible.

Giving myself a quick pat down, I check to make sure I have everything I absolutely need. Converter, Tears of Light, wallet, Tye’s talisman, Silver Scale, minor bought of malcontent with having a physical form that requires regular tending and a good railing, check.

I keep the Quake Medallion close, stringing it on a hair-tie and tucking it beneath the wonderfully woven natural linen-safflina blend kaftan conveniently left on the counter in place of the filthy clothes I was wearing before. It _has _to be one of Mr. Dragonborne’s personal garments, given the quality, size, intricate weaving, and materials. Plus, I’ve seen very few Gerudo men about and no others at all in the compound. Not that I’ve explored much of it, but still, statistically, it’s a pretty safe assumption for me to make.

I’m thankful that I won’t be expected to wear women’s clothing, thankful again that I won’t be expected to roam about in the nude, thankful yet again that it’s clean, I pick it up and slide it on. Since it is _probably_ Mr. Dragonborne’s, I have to roll the sleeves up into thirds, and end up tucking the orange rupees into the folds. Given the size, I _also_ need to use another hair-tie through the clasps in the front to keep it closed, or I risk exposure from neck to navel.

Nayru’s Blessing tells me that I _need_ to hide the markings on my chest and arms, though there’s nothing I can do about the one on my face. My Tears of Light should be hidden from casual sight as well, though the tiny Triforce at the base of my skull is taken care of with a looser braid than I normally use. My own obviously spook eyes and a full length mirror tell me I’ve lost a bit of weight since I last dared to look, my bones standing out starkly beneath my skin. Ribs – from my collarbone to my concave, vulnerable belly – moving in the mirror clearly as I breathe. Small, and weak, and frail.

Still disgustingly pretty, but there’s not much I can do about that without compromising my structural integrity.

It’s fucking frustrating. I’m twenty-_fucking_-four years old, and if you take away the Goddesses’ marks, laryngeal prominence, body-hair, and the world-weary resignation in my eyes, I look like a damn child in a poverty-porn commercial.

The absurdly oversize clothing doesn’t help with that impression, though folding the fabric of the square sirwal in half _does_ bulk up my waist somewhat when I secure the ends in place. I don’t even attempt to use the stiffened belt, simply looping two more hair-ties together instead and lifting the makeshift waistline to keep from tripping on the sirwal’s hem. My rigged belt in place, I fold the extended top edge of the sirwal over so the knots holding the two hair-ties in place aren’t easily undone. Two of them.

Just two.

Yes, they’re made for Gerudo, and everything about them is bigger by virtue of demographic averages, but...best estimate puts the resulting cord around a meter in length, and the ends overlap. Significantly. By approximately a third of the total length. Probably a little more.

Fuck.

A lot of weight. I’ve lost a _lot_ of weight. The scale doesn’t help tell me how much. I don’t remember how to convert 6ST8LBS into a logical means of calculating mass, but I know it’s less than the forty-five kilos that’s the very bottom range of underweight for someone of my height and ethnicity. Fine for a particularly bulky Rito, but my bones are _solid_, and I have a multi-state elimination function at one end of my digestive system.

No wonder I’m so tired. And cold, despite the rising sun turning the desert back into the world’s biggest natural solar oven. As loathe as I am to touch my wrappings now that I’m clean and wearing clean clothing, they provide an additional layer, some defense, and a sense of security that I desperately need despite the fact that one of the ones for my arms is currently in the gullet of an obliterated monster halfway across the country.

Bozai does his thing with a measuring tape as I stare into the middle distance and he studiously pretends that he really does need to check my inseam a third time before I get a set of soft boots to wear in the house, and a pair of thick socks clearly meant for children. Gerudo children, who are about 87.3% female give or take a couple percentage points for genetic spectrum reasons. Pink and floral and sturdy. I stare at them perhaps a little too long while Bozai’s face gets an internal sunburn staring at my feet. Blistered, calloused, with slightly overgrown toenails, and as boney as the rest of me.

Seriously? Not that feet are an unusual kink, but mine? Now? Like this? Without the courtesy of an attempt at _trying_ to have some discretion? Ugh. What a pervert. Thankfully, Mipha finds me there before he gets any ideas or any harder than half-mast, and guides me to the breakfast table.

At Mr. Dragonborne’s right side. A place of honor, while I forget practically everything I’ve ever learned about Gerudo dining etiquette. Almost everything. The unified auras of anticipation and a half-dozen eyes on me is enough of a reminder that – as an honored guest – I have to be served first and eat first before anyone else can start. Right hand only. Enough whatever to roll the rice into a ball, but not so much that it takes more than one bite to eat.

Swallow, Kaya. Swallow.

It’s…good. _Really _good. Spiced enough to make my lips sing, but not so much that my guts roil. Some kind of curry, I suppose, with chunks of pumpkin, radish, carrot, and turnip. A savory flatbread with a cheese curd on the side, a sweet wildberry something, and pickled green peppers for some bite, more vinegary than hot. Not nearly as greasy and sugary as the waffle and sausages Link prefers, at least until I get to one of the small balls of brown dough with a blanched almond on top.

Too sweet by far, and sticky on my fingers. Thank fuck there’s coffee to counteract the chocolatey, syrupy goop. Seasoned coffee, complex and bitter and lovely, if thick and foamy on top. The first sip I take tells me that the foam is the best part, but I wouldn’t object to an eight litre to-go mug of the coffee itself.

I’m nearly finished with my meal when I notice that Mr. Dragonborne has stopped chatting and is watching me eat like an amber-eyed Islander hawk watches what it’s _about_ to eat, and pause mid-sip. He smirks, and waves a hand vaguely over the room.

“I am glad you enjoy the bounty of my table, Sheikah. You are not what I expected of such a savage people.” He smirks. Savage, are we? The same people that built tech still used to this day while Hylians were still grubbing about in clay huts, savage? I think not…unless he means our respecting and honoring of the dead that the Gerudo as a whole seem content to let suffer. Then he can go fuck himself with a particularly robust Voltfruit cactus.

“Such _lofty_ praise from the one that provided the opportunity to fulfill said expectations_…_” I mutter into my delicate coffee cup before my long-lost sense of self-preservation can set up a blockade between my brain and my tongue. “…how very thoughtful of you, sir.”

Fuck, Kaya, you idiot. Do you _want _to die? For once in your life just _shut the fuck up_.

Although, I will admit that if I get to see the coolly composed Sargon Dragonborne, ender of empires, choking helplessly on his coffee and spraying the ephemeral flavors in the foam all over his fancy-ass tablecloth in the traditional Gerudo style, it may be worth dying beneath his fists. With all the rings he wears, and the strength in his arms, it probably wouldn’t even take him that long.

I do still want to be beaten, after all, for too many reasons to count. Mostly punishment, a little relief, a touch of the simple clarity that comes with sudden, overwhelming pain, and a lot of wanting the ‘care’ part in after-care that I don’t deserve unless I’ve taken the punishment to my Master’s satisfaction, first. Some smacks to go along with the bitter coffee would be excellent, especially if I can’t get fucked for dessert.

I think I manage to keep my face blank enough that none of Mr. Dragonborne’s guests know I’m fantasizing about him throwing me over the low table and tearing me apart over fruit and coffee, but I do have to shift a bit in my seat to make room for the inevitable result of that fantasy, and, well, most of them _are _Gerudo. They can probably smell the difference. No helping it, I guess, though I can keep myself from asking for it.

“You’re not what I expected, either.” I tell him, instead, as soon as he can breathe around his thick, henna-stained beard. Now henna-and-coffee stained. Oops, that’d be my bad. Not that I’m feeling at all apologetic.

“Oh? What is it that you expected of me, _child_?” Oh, that condescending _rotter_. I’m not sure if what follows the question is more coughing or a chuckle, but I’m frustrated enough to give up on the roundabout insults and go straight for the one-two dick-punch that I’ve wanted to dish out since I saw the Goddess-damned Dead Hand trapped and desolate in his southern garden. Broken teeth, endless hunger, and half-healed etchings in the larger bones included.

Frustrated enough, but not foolish enough. While keeping the Dead Hand confined is deplorable on its own, I’m almost entirely certain at this point that it’s not his fault. He’s renovating, saw a problem, and corrected it as best he could as quickly as he could. He’s given me food, shelter, clothing, and a week’s worth of wages, and I’ve offered nothing of substance in return.

Pointed, direct honesty it is, then.

“I _thought_ you had a different kind of gardening in mind.” I admit, and am met with silence until the Gerudo lady on his left says something in an inflection and dialect that I can’t translate. Something that causes rude murmurs that I _can_ translate to rush up and down the table.

_Whore_, after all, is a pretty intersectional insult.

Mr. Dragonborne carefully – too carefully – puts his coffee cup down on the table and stands up from his cushion to look down on all of us.

“_And you call my guest the barbarian?!_” He snarls in the most common form of the Gerudo tongue…not looking at me, but at his gathered people. “_You would believe a foreigner’s presumption over everything I have done for each of you? That I would use my power to take what is not freely given? Have you learned _nothing_ of what my house represents?!” _I carefully scootch my cushion back a bit in case I need to make a hasty exit, watching his displeased sparks of deepest citron sinking into sour crimson frustration and surface sorrow as blue as a clear summer sky. Disappointed. Angry. Grieving.

“Gan!” Mipha whimpers, forehead on the floor even though she had nothing to do with anything aside from being present in the room. “Please don’t be mad! I’m sorry!”

“I would not be unwilling.” I add in the space he takes between breaths, and see his pupils dilate beneath descending eyebrows. A frown, but controlled. Not on the verge of raging. Not anymore.

“I would.” He growls, sitting back down, and I nod, understanding his meaning. As if the utter lack of a sexual response wasn’t enough for me to tell he isn’t violet in the least.

“As I said, I _thought_ that was your intent. I do not believe so any longer. You have made it clear you do not find me attractive.” I say, and pick my now cold and congealing coffee up to have something to do with my mouth other than offer insults and upset his household.

“Oh, but I do find you attractive, boy.” He admits with the smarmiest of smirks, picking up his own coffee mug, nearly four times the size of mine. Big enough for a Gerudo mountain of a man. “As the first man in twenty generations to gain the power and fortunes needed to found a House of my own, I make quite an effort to surround myself with the beautiful and the unique. As the first Sheikah bold enough to come openly to the desert in nearly two hundred years and unattached to any retinue, with the face of youth and hair befitting one of the Golden Goddesses Themselves, you are _both_.”

“O-oh.” Well, then. Um. That’s…I’m not sure how I feel about that. I’m…not used to purely aesthetic appreciation without ulterior motives. Especially when my skin and lack of a wooden mask is pretty much all that’s keeping me from looking like a particularly fresh Re-dead.

“I simply do not feel desire for children.” He sniffs, and it’s my turn to sputter.

And there goes my coffee. It was still good, too.

“I’m twenty-four.” I growl – voice rough from inhaling some of the coffee – as I reach for my Sheikah I.D. card with my birthday written in prominent numbers right beneath the string of numbers that constitutes my legal identification, followed by my name, next to the picture that I have to get updated once a year within three business days of said birthday. Proof of my age, though my maturity is questionable. I shove the card in his face since I really _can’t_ slap a bitch. He’s too tall. The effect is entirely ruined by my unwrapped sleeve deciding that now would be a good time to unfold and swamp my hand in fabric.

“…impossible.” Mr. Dragonborne looks at the plastic security features and delicate aetheric seals against tampering, and snorts. “A forgery, surely.”

I just stare as I pull out the rest of my identification, corroborating the first and most important one. The one that only Sheikah have, and are required by law to have on them at all times. The one that I couldn’t forge without accepting all the consequences that having it in the first place implies.

“But you’re so small!” His left-hand tablemate exclaims, though Mr. Dragonborne himself simply shakes his head, laughing softly.

“Small in body, maybe, but large in Spirit. I would…” The door is flung open and a young Gerudo woman with a scimitar on each hip bursts in.

“Gan! Gan! The guard! They come!” She pants, not having yet learned to breathe and compose herself before delivering her message. Sloppy.

Not that I’m one to talk.

“Oh ho? Our meeting was not scheduled until nine thirty. They are early.” Mr. Dragonborne hums, and stands. “It would be impolite of me to attend to business while half-dressed. They can wait. You may tell them that.”

“Yes, Gan!” Bowing low, she scampers off, still breathing too hard.

“My apologies. Please, continue breaking your fast. I shall return as quickly as I am able, and we may continue our discussion.” Mr. Dragonborne sighs, and walks out, leaving me with the four Gerudo women, Mipha, and a dark-skinned Human merchant who’s been silent the entire time, apparently shocked into immobility that Mr. Dragonborne would deign to eat with a fucking spook at his table. He’s been staring at me the whole damn time, and hasn’t eaten a single bite.

Wasteful.

Draining the last of my coffee and nearly having to chew the dregs, I blink. It’s…a decent consistency, all told. I could…no. Wait. That…I _need_ to, Nayru’s Blessing lighting up in my mind like a stadium, bright and hot and urgent. Fine then.

Folding my sleeve back up, I clean my fingers and _unfold_ one of the napkins. It’s wide, but tears easily enough with a starting cut that I can get six good strips from it, and knotting those together end to end gets me a line that isn’t _too _much longer than I need.

The Gerudo women are collectively appalled. Mipha watches with interest. The merchant is gasping with a hand over his mouth and sparks of bright initiative haloing his head, but no heart-attack, so I leave him to it. The urgency in my veins won’t let me hesitate, and I’ve already destroyed my host’s property. Can’t take it back, can only move forward.

Fuck, I miss Link. _His_ household wouldn’t say anything about my eccentricities. They’d probably be tripping over themselves to help me do whatever I need to do. I…hope they’re okay.

Stop thinking, Kaya. Get to work.

Lacking a proper brush, used to using a marker or pen or my own fucking blood and fingers as needed, I do have my hair, and it works. As long as it works. Separating out a single lock from the loose braid takes moments that I somehow feel I don’t have. Dipping the end in the coffee-paste at the bottom of my cup picks up enough of the muck to try, and I know that the coffee itself with stain the bleached cotton brilliantly.

I place the tip firmly and with intent on the napkin strips, knowing the shape of the prayer _literally_ like the back of my hand. Let the stroke rise with my breath. Contain my strength for the briefest moment in preparation. Extend the line across, opening the appropriate _saithr _strands and correspondences for the protective talisman I am about to write, and write. Balance the weight of my strokes as I go, adjusting for tattered edges and seeping ink. Check my work. Seal the line.

No time to let it dry, I begin wrapping my arm immediately, and even though I tried, I’m not quite fast enough. Despite years of daily practice, I’m still tucking in the ends when the door opens to reveal perhaps a dozen – perhaps more – Gerudo women in black uniforms with teal accents and gold trim. Sashes. No weapons or badges, thank fuck, just I.D. tags. City guard, then, not A.R.G. or any related agencies.

The same kind that ignored Tye and I entirely two days ago, none of whom ignore me now. There’s here _for_ me. The Witchfinder’s writ the one with curly, natural hair holds says that loud and clear and in bolded font. There’s a moment where she meets my eyes to make certain I _know_ I’m her target…or that my eyes are actually as deep a red as the blood that will follow.

I’m not getting out of this. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. I stood too far out of line, and have no one to blame but myself. She would rather not force my compliance, but has a directive that she must carry out regardless of personal preference.

I tip my head in acknowledgement. She nods, and the previously quiet women erupt while the merchant practically disappears into a corner.

“_That’s him! Mistress Tali, that’s the one_!”

“_That’s the witch_!”

“_He’s enchanted Master Gan_!”

“_He’s a thief and a pervert_!”

“_He was consorting with demons!”_

“_Shut up_!” An old, old woman barks, stepping forward from behind the one with the writ. “_You annoy me_.”

They shut up. There’s nothing I can say. Cooperation will make this easier on me, I know the drill. Easier doesn’t mean easy, with the added implication that they’ll make it even more _not easy_ if I _don’t_ go cooperate for this part of the dog and pony show. I will, because in this instance, cooperation means I won’t die in the next few minutes. Cooperation I’ll have as long as it takes for them to build the bonfire.

Daruk’s Protection, Nayru’s Love. Shield, just in case. Reflect, for shits and giggles, if I have the time and energy. Not that there’s a point to it, really, but I should at least try to survive this. Princess Tetra’s still out there.

“_Last night, just after twenty-three hundred hours, a surge of Forbidden Magic was pinpointed as to having come from the House Ardin Compound. Upon investigation, it was revealed that a Sheikah had indeed violated the bylaws of the desert, casting prohibited spells in the southernmost garden, which was under renovation according to the tastes of the newest owner. Harboring such an individual is punishable by…”_

_“It’s my fault!” _Mipha cries, interrupting the presentation of some evidence with a free bundle of conjecture, inference, and speculation for the sake of the household staff if they buy-in to it right now. Not that she’s interrupting on my behalf, or that the interruption will change the outcome. “_Master Gan didn’t know, I swear!”_

The crone pauses her droning at the name of the Master of the House. Fucking called it.

“…_truly, busab?”_ The old woman asks.

“_I swear upon the Seven!”_ She sobs, and I’m not sure how much of her dramatic emoting is real, and how much is a distraction. She’s _that_ good of an actor…and probably an empath or healer, to manipulate the threads of their weaving so subtly. I may be impressed, somewhere under the resignation and behind the panic. “_I called as soon as I realized what he was! Please don’t punish Master Gan!”_

“_You did the right thing, and your city thanks you for it._” The old woman nods, waving to the two beefier women near the back to come forward. “_We will take it from here.”_

And that’s how I won an all-expense paid trip to the top of an old viewing tower with a literally magical view of the city. I think. There are parts that are a little fuzzy for the kinds of reasons that get redacted in the public inquiry. I can see clear across all of Sabak, including how most of the intricate pattern of streets and buildings spread out beyond the walls and into the wadi that must have flooded out of the oasis before the city itself interfered with the natural environment.

The scale of thaumaturgic architecture is incredible, a master-work of decades…and the surrounding desert is naturally awe inspiring just for what it is, especially from above.

It’d be breathtaking, if I had any breath left after an unexpected and particularly vicious punch to the gut that has me sicking up most of my breakfast onto the platform’s brick surface, that is. The rest dribbles down my chin, throat, and chest to get caught in what used to be a lovely bespoke Dragonborne kaftan. Took them longer than I thought to resort to physical violence, and it was delivered with precision and purpose instead of rage and fear.

The dick-juggler from my local Savingway should take notes. I’ll probably bruise, but not badly enough to pick out individual knuckles. I _would_ have doubled up, curling in on myself to protect my vital organs, but the ice around both forearms and fists keeps me mentally numb and physically standing up no matter how much I struggle against it. Not that I have much to struggle with, or much weight to throw around. After the second try, I know it’s futile, and gave up instead of wasting what energy I do have.

They’ll bring the kindling soon enough.

“_Now we wait._” The peacocking old woman – who decided to paint her shrivelled ball-sack of a face with an unnaturally pale-lipped make-up style that was semi-popular thirty years ago and then cover it with aviator sunglasses a size too small for her head – cackles, and goes to sit beneath a portable awning and sip from a bottle of Noble Pursuit directly. Apparently day-drinking starts early around here, and is acceptable on the job.

I take the time to pray. For Link, to find his Princess. For her to regain her place at her sister’s side. For Kahti and _Bestemor _Purah and everyone at Temple to not mourn too long, if they find out I haven’t just left town. For Hanju and Kafei and their upcoming crotch Bokoblin to be able to stay together, and, perhaps, be happy together. For Grand Master Impa to stay safe from those who would hunt her down like an animal.

I pray for myself. Ask forgiveness for the small sins that I can neither prevent nor remember. Absolution for the ones that Their grace may allow. Regret the sins that cannot be forgiven, and ask that no one _else_ will suffer for my failings. A lifetime of them, including when I should have died the first time, with my first Master.

Alcoholism would have been easier, if Raisin Face is anything to go by. She’s having a blast. It takes me nearly an hour in the inevitably rising sun to figure out that her steady consumption is not an addiction, but rather a form of torture.

An hour that I spend suspended by my arms, the balls of my feet barely on the ground, and sweating. With my moisture being sacrificed to the direct, searing rays of the sun, and nothing to replace it with, she drinks in the shade. Right in front of me. Practically daring me to call my Shadows for protection without any of the appropriate set spell-forms, and prove to them all that I’m the kind witch their children’s stories warn them about.

Yeah, right. Just because in the last week I’ve blown up _one _lawn, broke into someone’s house, stole around a hundred rupees worth of food and supplies, took an S.U.V without permission and crashed it, practiced fornication for pay without a license, and ignored a prohibition that’s been in place since just after the last Calamity _through no fault of my own_, doesn’t mean I deserve to be the victim of a bunch of arrogant, self-important vigilantes.

And that’s what they are, despite their local community sanction. If it were _justice_, there would have been a trial, and a proper damn burning….which would by necessity involve the A.R.G. _and_ the Witchfinders. Such a joy. I would’ve been treated to a beating and a quick removal to someplace no one would find my body instead of this slow roast, and I know which one I’d prefer. Not that I get to choose. So we wait. For whatever it is they’re waiting for. And wait. And wait.

Raisin face drinks.

I cook. And cook. Until every breath burns.

“_Mistress, nothing has happened. Should we…?_” According to the sundial the viewing tower provides on the flat sand plain below, the much younger Gerudo with a spear on the old one’s right leans in to whisper the words two whole hours after I did my best fist-assisted impression of a mating Sand Seal, but with fewer chunks of half-digested fruit in my beard.

“Mm.” The taller Gerudo with the natural hair standing next to Raisin Face nods, and moves faster than anyone I’ve ever seen move besides Link. Technically faster than anyone else, because I didn’t actually _see_ what he did to the Chu-chu before it was dead. He was just there.

This time though, he doesn’t come.

...good.

Despite the dried stains on the front of the kaftan I’m wearing, Moss Ball reaches right in to undo the string and finds both the Goddesses’ aetheric body-mods and the Quake Medallion against my chest. The Medallion gets removed and carefully set aside, my converter disposed of. The red Loftwing on my sternum serves as a target.

“_Six, I think_.” Raisin Face chuckles like a deflating tire, and pulls out a fan in addition to the shade and the iced beverage to help her keep cool. I don’t have long to wait to find out she means Urbosa’s Furies, all at once.

My Daruk’s Protection eats the first three, while Nayru’s Love takes the edge off the next two, and when I’m finished screaming and trying to bring back the voguing dance craze of the early 90’s, I take a nap.

When I wake up, I can’t see my shadow at all. Can’t lift my head. Can’t move my limbs, still encased in supernaturally sourced ice that doesn’t melt and doesn’t fade. A renewable resource that’s good for the local economy, and an absolute necessity for a nice spook on the rocks. Electrocuted, not stirred. My skin is tight and warm from my hairline to my waist, and my scalp itches. And burns. High noon, then, and we have company.

“_…not surprising. The brilliance of the Goddess of the Sands keeps the demons at bay, just as a practitioner of the Forbidden Arts summons them. Every child knows this.” _Raisin Face laughs_. “Wait an hour, and you’ll get your show. I’ve called for reinforcements already. The monsters _will_ come.”_

The thing is, she’s right. Her reasoning is flawed, and her timing is off, but she’s right. The local demonic fauna _will_ come – since she’s providing prey in the form of what looks like the entire city guard disturbing the sands that are their hunting ground – and they do. The staggered lines of Sabak’s defenders encircle the city, all the way around, just outside the walls. Pushing the warding of the Lines beyond its set boundaries – thanks to their authority coming from the consent of the governed – and weakening the whole thing…but not damaging it. I can see that much, and more.

Like the moment the lure of fresh prey becomes too great for the monsters to resist.

Leevers can sense movement, and are the first to show up as soon as the barges start moving across the sand. Moldorms feel the change in the amount of light hitting the ground, and spring up the moment a shadow falls across their burrows. Lizalfos, their barbed tongues flicking through the air, smell their sweat, and swarm over the dunes.

The more the city guard fights, the more the monsters come to feed. Escalating the destruction. Self-fulfilling and self-damning all at once, precisely the opposite of what we _esclavin_ were trained to do…and I get to watch it happen. For _hours_. Followed by reinforcements, and an exponential increase in attacks on both sides, though the city guard absolutely decimate the monsters and sustain relatively minor and few injuries. The second round of reinforcements is…different.

A Molduga’s cochlea is as sensitive to sound as a Gerudo’s nose is to geosmin. Both adaptations to the harsh environment of the vast desert land they both call home. To smell water on the ever-blowing wind over kilometers means life. To hear a footstep through kilometers of deep sand means prey…and prey, in this case, does not mean injury. Prey, in this case, means death.

“_MOLDUGA!!!”_

And death…death comes to the desert. Sudden and merciless and brutal. The perfect trifecta for the creation of the malcontent dead. The city guards on the ground scramble for either the walls or the tower, much like the Leevers only moments ago. Most of them make it. Some of them don’t. Too many don’t. The Gerudo line breaks in a rush of sound and motion and scent. The Molduga follows the surge of black clad warriors rushing the base of the tower.

No matter how fast they are, they can’t both fight and run. There are too many monsters, not enough hands. Not enough weapons. Not enough shields. The Molduga gains ground. Eats a scout as he flees. Shakes the tower with the force of its landing. Helping hands reach for the first of the line to gain the top of the stairs. Two of the mages that decided to test my conductivity turn to reinforce the rusted rail and crumbling brick stairs. 

“_Steady…now!” _The other four snap, still on target, and I can’t help but scream. White-hot and stunning, the seconds stretching into hours I don’t have. Shudder out a gasp, and feel my lip crack from the strain, blood flowing hot and salty over my chin, but not for long.

“_Kaya!” _With my brain short-circuiting, I hallucinate the one thing that I most want and couldn’t even begin to hope to see…then blink when it doesn’t waver.

Is…this real? I’m still burning, still twitching, so I’m not dead. Not yet…but...

…the fuck is he wearing?

No. It can’t be. He would never. This isn’t real. He should be looking for Princess Tetra, safe in the city. What’s he doing here? He _shouldn’t be here_!

“…Link?” I rasp. Somehow, despite everything around us, he hears. And he comes, abandoning the poor woman bleeding all over the bricks. He comes. He’s real. He’s here.

For _me_.

The utter _fool._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, look! I remembered to put a chapter title in this time! Which may have thematically set the tone for the entire chapter!  
Exclamation points mean you're excited! Two more chapters of angst-wanking to go, and it's going to be messy! 
> 
> In other words - please enjoy whatever seasonally appropriate holiday you prefer to partake in, as best you can. We all deserve a little joy right now.


	32. An Elegy at High Noon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to Link's POV.  
Poor Link.  
This chapter appears long, but that's because there are a lot more paragraph breaks and more dialogue than the last couple chapters, so it's not really too long...though it is long.  
That said, if horrible angst isn’t your cup of tea, how’d you get here? Flee, you fools! Flee!  
This chapter is going to hurt you. And my muses shall feast on your agony with great abandon.  
Uuuuuuh….happy new year?  
Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: Minor Character Death. Major Character Death(*). Torture. Gore. Medical Trauma.
> 
> Content Warnings: Violence. Racism. Canon Implied Discrimination. Sanctioned Discrimination. Systemic Discrimination. Language. Heavy Angst. Magic Bullshitting. Blood where blood should not be. Insubordination. Organizational Conflict. A.E.D. Usage.
> 
> (*) see End Notes for more details
> 
> As always, if I missed something you think I should warn about, please please please tell me and I will add it! 
> 
> FC - 5, courtesy of Sheik

.

“…Link?” Despite his exhausted panting, and the determined chatter, frightened gasps, shocked moans, and pained groaning around me on all sides, somehow I can hear my name falling from his lips. Lips that are slowly dripping blood, staining his teeth a macabre red.

Not as much blood as covers the Jules’ leg, ripped open and barely sealed with potion before being torn open again with the strain of running up the stairs. That’s a much bigger problem. One that he can help with, if his hands weren’t bound over his head.

Smashing the ice blocks encasing his hands to free him means I also have to catch him to keep him from falling when his legs won’t support his weight, and he cries out when his sunburn rubs against my shoulder…and the darkened, charred skin peels away, sticking to my shirt in jagged strips.

…_ew. _

Also, _ow._

Ichor beads up alongside dark, sluggishly flowing blood where the heraldic bird of the royal family is tattooed on his chest. I hiss in a visceral reaction to the sight, torn between my honorable duty to _all_ Hyrule’s peoples and my amazing, unlooked for, remarkable love…who is in so much pain he’s actually expressing it. On his _face_, no, with his _whole body_, not just in his eyes.

They lock with mine. Dull, twitching, resigned and certain.

He can’t help with anything, right now. He…

“Help her.” He pants, the reddened flesh of his torso shimmering beneath the thin, translucent layers sloughing off of rising blisters that have been torn open against my clothes. Some smaller shreds stick to my tunic. I ignore them, and obey him, helping peel back the sodden fabric from Jules’ leg while her Shieldmate calls for a medic.

More people reach the top of the stairs. Some of them can answer her cries. When one does, I get out of the way so they have room to work, and so I can haul Sheik across the platform by his clothing to lie next to her, then stand over him to both guard him from Mistress Shabonne’s mages and block as much of the light as I can from reaching his crisped, cooked, dry, torn, and fragile skin.

Despite his skin _radiating_ heat, he shivers, and his heart beats far too fast for someone lying still. I try to get him to drink some water from my Silver Scale while we wait. He tries to swallow, and ends up choking. Whining softly with the pain. I can hold him steady, but don’t dare rub or pat his back. He’s cold to the touch, the ridges of his spine sharp and hard, and even that steadying touch has him whimpering through his coughs.

“_Stand aside, Hylian._” One of the mages growls. “_The Practitioner of the Forbidden Arts is still dangerous.” _

…what?

Oh.

Oh _no_.

Too many things fall into place at once for me to respond to any of them appropriately, the unwelcome revelations cascading through my head one after another.

They…he…oh, _Goddess_!

I can’t help baring my teeth in a snarl, or the instinctive growl that rumbles up from my gut any more than I can let her get any closer to him. Sheik – _Kaya_ – is _not_ the kind of monster that Benja described to me…but his presence and Senator Malladus’ re-ignition of poisonous bigotry have combined to make him an easy mark.

A simple solution to a complex problem…and something that gives those under pressure to do _something_ – people like the head of city security – something to do. A sacrifice to expediency, and one of the great failures in leadership that Tetra has cautioned me against making, myself. Usually when I’m bored, or angry, or scared…and there are a _lot_ of very scared people right now. I’m one of them, though that part of my mind seems to keep urging me to _fight_ instead of flee.

And, _oh, _good Lady, do I want to fight.

I can’t punch anyone. I _can’t._ They’re _all_ complicit. I don’t have that kind of time. I _don’t_, and redirecting it will do my Sheik absolutely no good. A Molduga is too much for me alone, and the smaller monsters have long since disappeared. I won’t give chase, because I _will not_ abandon him again. I _won’t_, no matter _who_ stands over us, demanding it of me.

Until there is a medic available, I will _not_ stand aside. Kaya _needs_ me. I won’t let them touch another hair on his head, and use my body to shield him directly, putting a hand on my sword’s hilt to make myself as clear as possible. I’m getting better and better with their words, but I I can’t make any of them come out of my mouth no matter how hard I try, too intent on chewing my fury to manage a single syllable.

They _hurt _him! For _no reason_! I…

“You _stand aside!_ Both_ of you!” _The medic that was tending to Jules’ leg turns, and practically shoves me away from Sheik, who is murmuring something too softly for me to hear, his lips chapped and eyes sunken, but no longer actively bleeding. With her attention on the next patient, I can stand between them and the world, if I have to, and fully draw my sword to face a threat I never thought would be one.

The City Guard. A specific City Guard.

I sparred with her yesterday morning.

“_Fool!” _She growls. “_Did he offer you Power, little Hylian? We know…” _

“_How could you?!”_ The howl behind my teeth comes out sharp and painful, quieting her faster than a slap in the face. A slap would make me feel better, but wouldn’t help Kaya. Or her. She _hurt_ _Sheik_ without knowing _anything_ about him! Just followed her orders, and believed what she’s been told. Neither of which are her fault…but…but…

She _went through with it_! She is responsible for her actions. Orders don’t make those actions _right_.

I can’t forgive this. I _can’t_. It’s _wrong_!

“_I…” _Seeing the blade of my borrowed sword, the steadiness with which I hold it – and hearing the grief that I _must_ keep funneling into rage so it doesn’t crush me – is enough for her to look at what I protect, and see what she has done. “…_it’s just a…”_

_“Man.” _The medic snarls, hands aglow and sweating with effort. “He_ is a _man_ that _you _have tortured, and for what? Entertainment? Fame? Riches? Pride?”_

_“To draw out the monsters, and save Sabak from the Calamity!” _Mistress Shabonne bites out in response, storming closer and giving me a different threat to focus on. _“His evil practices in the Dark Arts are the reason we’ve been attacked, day in and day out, for the last two weeks!”_

“_No, that’s wrong.”_ One of the more decorated women retorts, no longer winded from the stairs. “_He shares blood with our enemies, and is therefore forbidden free travels within the desert, but not without recourse. His magic is of the Shadow, not the Dark. Proscribed, but not evil. Using it…pardon me. Using _him_ as your bait would be no more effective than using one of your own, perhaps even less so. He is very weak.”_

My grip on my sword doesn’t waver, even though my rage does, but dissent in the ranks isn’t enough to get me to stand down. Not until _everyone_ sees the person beneath the prejudice. Not until Kaya gets the help he needs. The help that I _can’t_ give.

I don’t know how.

_“You dare contradict me?! Here?! Now?! I am the leader, here! I give the orders!” _Mistress Shabonne barks out, spine straight and as intimidating as I’ve ever seen. The wave of authority washes over the other, plumper woman, and breaks in the face of her composure.

_“And I am a Witchfinder Auditor. Your information is wrong, and it is my duty to correct it. Had I known your intent, I would not have given my _{sanction}_ for this _{engagement}.” The middle-aged Gerudo woman sniffs. Drawing out a sheet of paper from her tunic, she sets it on fire with a glance. The wind carries the flaming ashes over the edge of the pillar where the Molduga circles…waiting.

It knows we’re here – nearly sixty people in a space the approximate size of a baseball diamond’s in-field – and that there’s no way out except down.

“_That’s very nice, but if you lot don’t want to be charged with {_kidnapping_}, _{aggravated} _assault, and first_ {degree murder_}, I could use a hand here. He’s going into _{hypovolemic shock}_.” _The medic bent over my Sheik says, implacable and stern, and I risk a glance towards them both.

He lies twitching – _writhing _– beneath her hand, eyes glazed and lidded, barely breathing. Faintly seizing, as though his body doesn’t have the strength to do anything more. I can feel my heart skip a beat on my next inhale, my distress measured in cut time. Habit alone is all that keeps my sword in hand.

_“Here._” The mage that I had at the end of my blade is the first to respond, pushing past my wavering stance and offering her hand for the medic to use her energy as needed. The two furthest from us don’t move, though I’m not at all certain they’re aware of anything going on over here. The mages on the edge don’t move either, but I know they’re working on something important, because the deep, steady thrum of active shielding hasn’t let up at all.

Robsten is guarding Gartan, who is tending to Dillie, who is talking to Jora, while Brigo stares out into the depression in the dune where Pirou disappeared. Too old, too slow, and too proud to admit it. If I had known, given him my share of the Rushshrooms at breakfast…he wouldn’t have accepted. It may have made a difference, it may not have, and it’s too late, either way.

If needed, I will interrupt, but for now, I can leave them be. Sheath my sword, and focus on my Sheik, who has gone far too still. Breathing, yes, but little more than gasps. Irregular and shallow.

I can’t help him. I can only guard them, and turn my face to do just that, though my ears cant back to listen to each halting wheeze.

I’m not expecting Tali to walk over and offer her hand with a grunt and a nod. The medic accepts the aid and burns through another handful of the beads in Sheik’s hair. The Witchfinder Auditor – I’m assuming for the whole province, because there aren’t that many of them – is next in line…and that’s enough. Sheik coughs, expelling a mangled lump of oily, slick, glistening nastiness, and sits up almost entirely on his own.

The medic moves on to a broken arm, and I sit on the sun-warm bricks of the pillar and pull Kaya into my arms, unable to keep from alternately running my fingers over his restored skin and clutching him close as I kiss whatever I can reach without jostling him too much. He’s still cold to the touch, bleary-eyed and a little twitchy, his bones prominent beneath the fabric his dress, but alive. Here. Whole. As safe as anyone else.

Turning a couple of his beads back into energy, drinking green potion and water. Leaning his head on my shoulder and shuddering in my arms, his graceful fingers trembling as they trace over my chest and face in turn.

“Link. Link, why are you here? How are you here? Where’s…you know? Did you find her? Is she safe?” He asks, his words barely half of a breathy whisper to keep anyone else from overhearing. “I found her, you know. Link, where were you? I was _looking_ for you. She _needs_ you, Link! Why are you _here_? How did you get here? When’d you give up on the preppy twunk look and turn goth e-boy? Not that I’m not happy to see you, but really, all black? Not what I expected. Black is too harsh against your skin. You should…”

“Sheik…” He’s babbling, dazed and shocky, but he’s back.

“You look better in navy.” He murmurs, hand on my cheek, before going limp.

“_Sheik_!” I yelp, barely keeping him from hitting the deck head first. He groans, his full, faint weight in my arms, lifting his hands to run down his own cheeks.

“You should get naked. I like naked best.” His hand trails along my thigh and…

“SHEIK!” …he pinches my butt. Grabbing up the offending limb, I feel my face go red from my nose to the tips of my ears, and tug his hands back where they should be. “Not here!” I scold as he laughs, getting a better look at the unguarded expression on his face as he beams at me…and as it falls.

“There’s a fucking _Molduga_ out there, did you see?” He asks, eyes wide and not quite even as he looks up at me, pupils blown and unfocussed. Chatty.

“I did.” Aether-drunk. He’s aether-drunk.

“It’s huge!”

“It is.” I nod.

“We’re trapped!” He gasps, going tense in my arms.

“We are.”

“How are you so fucking calm?!” Pulling back a bit, I get to see his eyes shift and glow as he stares…and as they cross, not really tracking anything, but obviously trying.

“I’m not.” I tell him, and it’s the truth. I’m _devastated_, and trembling with the weight of it. He’s been _hurt_. _Badly_. He found Tetra. Presumably with Nabooru’s help, but maybe not. He _found_ her, and I didn’t…and I would have, if I’d just _waited_ for him.

Guilt and shame and anguish rush through me, hard and strong and bitter like Zuko’s first attempt at making wine. Unpleasant, to say the least, and leaving me nauseous and pained, after.

“You’re not.” He nods, and shifts to kneel so I’m the one wrapped in his arms, our knees bumping against each other’s thighs. Slotted together like this, it’s hard to ignore that he’s almost the same height as I am, even though he’s so much thinner. Skeletal. Shaking. “She’s okay. Not great, but okay. I know where she is. We can go to her as soon as we avoid dying horribly here. Sound good?”

“Sounds great.” I sniff…and gag. He may have had enough field treatment to heal his wounds, used appropriate restoratives on himself for fluid and magic, and is rapidly recovering…but his clothes can’t, and he reeks worse than the reekfish soup Ashei said was good for boosting vitality. That, at least, was fresh.

“You know what’s up with Raisin Face?” He asks as I recoil for the sake of my sinuses.

“Who?”

“The desiccated Gerudo lady with the retro fashion sense and all the deductive reasoning skills of a concussed Bokoblin.” He rolls his eyes, and points his chin towards the ranking officials gathered beneath the shade. Three of them are dark enough to be considered raisin brown, but only one is deeply wrinkled. Hopefully my deductive reasoning is in a little better shape.

“Mistress Shabonne?” I ask, tilting my head in the same direction.

“Sure. Why’d she want my entrails on a pike, and why aren’t they on one?”

“She – _mistakenly_ – thought that you…” I begin to explain, but am interrupted by the rush of nearly a hundred feet towards the eastern side of the pillar where we’re crouched, and it’s all I can do to not be knocked over or separated from him again. It also means we have a prime view of a barge as it skirts the edge of the soft sand waves and the hard packed sand and rocks – barreling towards the pillar we stand on – and the eight people it carries.

None of them are wearing black, so they’re not reinforcements, but I can’t see any more than that. Yet. They’re too far away.

I do hear the Molduga’s hissing breath escape from its blowhole as it sinks beneath the surface once more, enticed at the prospect of finding fresh prey.

About five hundred meters from the base of the pillar, the barge stops and six people-shapes get out. One Gerudo, red hair in a tail that flies in the later-afternoon winds. Three other women, and two men, either Hylian, Human, or Sheikah by their size. I can’t tell from here, their coloring too indistinct, and I can’t hear a word they say. Clustered around the Gerudo, firmly on the stone-like clay trail leading towards Sabak…there has to be a discussion happening.

Not to rescue us. They don’t have any of the tools or the kind of numbers for that. No, this is a plan of attack.

To take down a _Molduga_.

The two men dart onto the dunes with sudden speed, and split, leaving twin trails of footprints in the sand for the women to note. This close – this _far_ – I can hear the shift, and see the line of footprints left by the one on my left vanish, but do nothing to warm him as the Molduga surfaces, tossing him in the air.

Just like Pirou. My breath catches in my throat, and I want to cry out…

…except he’s not there. With a puff of smoke and a pop of magic, he disappears at the apex of the Molduga’s breech, and the rapid pat of three arrows bounce off the Molduga’s hide. They don’t have a big enough shaft, sharp enough head, or strong enough bow to do any real damage…or all three. Reappearing on the sand below, the first man stays still and quiet as the second one plants his feet a little bit harder with each step, moving slower for it, tempting the monster to attack.

Due to its immense size, the Molduga has to dive to turn and retaliate, and it goes beneath the pillar we all stand on, juddering the whole structure as two of the mages steadying it cry out in alarm. That causes the creature to pause, and then slam the structure with its broad, boney-ridged tail. They don’t make the same mistake twice – seeming to forego breathing to maintain the silence – and, after a moment where no one dares to move, the monster sinks into the ocean of sand once again.

I secure my shield, and take Sheik’s hand to find a place where we can better witness a battle that we cannot join.

The second of the two men – his directive interrupted – casts an impressively sized burst of Fire. I can hear the pop and whoosh of air from here…and so can the Molduga. Ripples rise in the dunes as it completes its turn, and charges the place the sound came from as the man begins to run again. Keeping its attention on him, and away from the people on the pillar and his compatriots.

It works. The Molduga rises, kicking sand and dust and dirt into the air with a terrifying bellow, and he disappears just like the first.

The Gerudo woman’s spear finding purchase sends the Molduga’s tail flailing, an archer falling back, and the taller of the remaining two women – her silver hair flashing – takes the brunt of the displaced sand in place of the smaller blonde. Her Love absorbs most of it, and she rolls to negate the rest as the blonde rushes forward to slash at the exposed appendage with a Gerudo scimitar.

The Molduga shrieks, the profound bass rumbling low through my bones, rolls, and retaliates. Slamming the broad surface of its tail down on the tough land where it cannot swim, precisely where the blonde woman with the sword stands. Utterly obliterating her. It had to have. There’s no way for someone to withstand that kind of blow, and I wince away, not wanting to confirm the results when the Molduga slides back beneath the sand.

“_NO, _you_ IDIOT!” _Sheik roars, sliding his hand from mine and darting down the stairs. “Get her out of here! Tye!!”

I look closer, shading my eyes with my hand, dread rising in my throat like a scream.

Tye, now that I know what I’m looking for, is easy to pick out. As is Regan. The Gerudo and Sheikah women _are_ unfamiliar, but the last…

Brassy blonde – not the brownish-strawberry blonde I’m used to – hair done in a bun instead of permed in soft waves and loose down her back. Evenly tanned skin instead of the carefully made-up pallor of someone who spends most of her time indoors...even through the glimmering light of Daruk’s Protection, beyond the pink cotton t-shirt, light linen jacket, and jeans, I _know_ her.

_Tetra!_

Somehow, I’ve caught up to Sheik’s unsteady, mad dash into danger, passed him, and am sprinting across the sand as if it was the track, smooth and flat and even.

_Tetra_…

What is she _doing_ here?!

The ground disappears beneath my feet as the Molduga rises. I forgot about it entirely. I…

“_LINK!”_

I would recognize that voice anywhere. At least I got to see her one more time.

Gravity takes me stomach first, and I begin to fall.

“Ngh!”

_poof _

“Ah, damn.” Instead of a molted tongue and rows of razor teeth, I’m standing on decade old bricks that have been weathered by the wind and time, surrounded by the warriors of House Barta under the leadership of Mistress Shabonne, Regan’s arms around my waist. “Sorry about that, m’Lord shithead. Now _stay put_.” He grunts.

Like I can.

“Regan, _wait!” _I shout as he pulls back, drawing a handful of paper talismans to return to the battle. “It’s too big, you’re not doing enough damage.” I explain, speaking as quickly as I can so I can get it all out before he disappears. “_Let me help_!”

“Let _us_ help.” Tali asks, and bows low when she sees she has his attention.

“Just tell us how.” Mistress Shabonne says, still enraged, hands bleeding where her jeweled nails have dug into her palms, but doing what needs to be done regardless of her pride. “We owe you and yours.”

Regan recoils from the intent press of larger, stronger, more powerful bodies, taking a step back towards the stairs.

“I…” He swallows, drawing the talismans fully. “One moment.”

“Fucking wait just a…dammit! Fuck!” Sheik pants, cresting the top of the stairs in time to catch one of the spent paper tags in his hand, but not Regan himself. It crumples loudly as he grits his teeth in frustration, stalking across the few meters between us, eyes blazing.

“You stay here!” His delicate fingers coil in my tunic and he shakes me. “Please, just…” His hands tremble. “…_stay_.”

The Molduga bugles, and paper flutters as Regan returns with Tetra in hand.

She’s _here._

“We need to do more damage when the Molduga surfaces. What can you offer?” Despite the dark goggles shielding her eyes and the red scarf hiding her face, her words are clear, direct, and pointed, and Mistress Shabonne knows how to respond to them. I’m too busy trying not to collapse to go to her side.

She’s _beautiful_.

“Mages, spears, and swords. No ranged. We weren’t expecting anything worse than a Lizalfos. I planned poorly...” She admits, and bows her head. “…my lady…?”

“Sheik.” Tetra says, and I swallow my first three responses. She’s not asking for him. That’s a title, not a name. Why would she want to be called Sheik? Then I catch on.

She’s still on the run, still in hiding. What better way to hide than obscure who and what she is on every level possible? I keep my mouth shut, stay put, and let her take the authority she deserves, despite not having any of the supports she should.

Well, she has some of them. Me. Kaya. Tye. Regan. Four men where there should be thousands, from all races and genders.

“Lady Sheik, my guard are yours to command.” Shabonne nods, giving over her own authority with a good deal of grace, considering. Tetra puts it on like a well-loved cloak.

Sixty people, maybe seventy in all with the additional barge. It will have to be enough.

“Mages, I want you to focus a collective Fury on the Molduga’s eyes, try to boil them in its skull if you can, and the louder the better. Burst its cilia. My people will continue to bait and switch for as long as possible, but we’re running low on talismans, so when it surfaces, make it count. Pikes, move to the base of the stairs. Once it’s stunned, poke and run to safety, or poke and stay absolutely still. It’s sensitive to sound, and recovers quickly, which means swords are a liability and will have to stay back.”

With Shabonne translating, it takes longer than I’d like to relay the instructions. Long enough that the Molduga has surfaced, failed to consume Tye, and swung around again before they’re done. Regan – returned to the field as soon as Tetra was safe – uses another set of talismans to escape the horrific maw before everyone is in place.

As much as I want to be down there with the rest of my squadron, and as much as I feel as though I _should_ be, my range is too short for practicality, and my skill with any kind of polearm is unpracticed. Kaya does better, and _he’s_ better off joining the line of mages at the edge of the tower, ready to snap…though he does not join them, simply standing by my side and obviously exhausted by his ordeal.

He does accept another bottle of potion from the medic, and dissolves two more of his beads, but doesn’t move to do more. That’s fair. I don’t doubt he’s ready to fall over entirely, and is standing out of willpower alone.

With him practically plastered to my side, one step back and to the right, I go stand by Tetra, at her right hand, where I belong. Listen to the harmony of our hearts beating in steady, strong, war-drum time. Wait.

It’s not so bad, waiting. Not when there’s a purpose to it. Not when it’s with her. Him. Them.

Still not great, though.

We watch.

Tye streaks across the ground in great leaping bounds. Jumping. Over and over, despite the cost in magic. The pillar shudders as the Molduga passes close by the northern edge to circle around, ridges of sand rising and falling against the patterns of the dunes etched by the wind…and disappears.

Jump. Jump. Jump. Jump.

There.

Before the first spray of displaced earth has peaked, the line of polearms – spear, pike, glaive, halberd, trident – advance, as close together and even as the teeth of a comb. Disciplined and steady, they dash to where the gargantuan predator has, yet again, failed to capture its prey.

“_Now!” _

Urbosa’s Fury flying from fourteen sets of crisply snapped fingers echoes across the air. Battle-cries answer as polearms find their mark. The Molduga bellows, flailing in agony, and rolls. Three of the warriors, all Gerudo, aren’t fast enough to avoid the weight, and disappear beneath the desert behemoth as it dives down.

Tye and the unfamiliar Sheikah women appear with them at the top of the pillar behind me, and stay, their displacement-talismans exhausted. All of them unharmed, embarrassed, but alive. Good…sort of. They did a significant amount of damage, but not enough to end it. We need to either hit it harder, or keep it above the dunes longer.

“Again.” Tetra orders, and the call is translated and passed on. The line freezes in place, waiting for Regan to bait the monster with the sound of his footfalls…except he doesn’t. Raises his arms over his head and crosses them, then sending up a soundless flare that explodes in a Rune I don’t recognize, but Sheik – Kaya – does.

“He’s spent. No more tags.” He sighs, rubbing his sweaty palms on his thighs. A nervous twitch that I’m familiar with. It’s not a good sign. Almost as _not a good sign_ as the Rito from a local news crew starting to circle the battlefield like vultures, feeding on the mayhem and death instead of doing something to help.

“Any bright ideas?” Tetra asks, frowning at Mistress Shabonne. “We can let the Molduga go, and hunt it down later if we need to. I’d rather not lose anyone else.”

Prioritizing life and limb over fame and fortune. As a rebuke, it lacks any significant amount of sting. As a statement, she’s just won over the entire collection of random squadron members, staff, and the whole command structure standing around us.

I’ve _been_ hers, the entire time. I’ll _be_ hers as long as she wants me to be.

Tangling our fingers, I feel my mother’s ring on her left hand, and squeeze gently.

“Let me go.” Kaya says, bending to kneel before us both.

“No.” I deny the request immediately.

“No.” Tetra does, too.

“We’re out of options. Even if I’m no master baiter, I can be bait.” He argues, head still bowed, not looking at either of us, though I can hear the coping mechanism in his crude humor.

“And to escape, what is your plan?” Mistress Shabonne asks in Modern before either of us can respond, one eyebrow raised. “If you flee so easily, why stay in hands of me and mine?”

“Because I’ll need time to set up, a way to mark the ground, and a way to keep the area clear. It will take me a good couple seconds to activate the spell, as well.” He explains, also in Modern, more for my sake than anything else.

“And you think that the Molduga will give you more than one?” I ask him, wanting to reach out and shake him…but he’s right. He's _right._ RIto can’t lift an adult Gerudo, and we’re not high enough for wingsuits. Without the talismans, if we don’t do _something_, every single one of the warriors still on the dunes right now will die. Most likely everyone on the pillar, as well.

“I believe I can do it.” He insists. “Please, allow me to try.”

“Fine…” Tetra gives in. “…but if you die, I will be very cross with you!”

“Understood. Master?” He breathes, pleading with me when I don’t say anything. Tetra’s instructions were clear, and she’s in charge. I didn’t think I had a say in what he decides to do, anyway. Looking in his eyes, listening to the steadfast beat of his heart…he’s made his choice, and I won’t take that from him.

“Don’t let me down.” I rasp, frightened _for_ him…but he’s right. He’s right, and needs to go. He nods.

“I won’t. I swear.” He promises, already thinking twelve steps ahead. He rises to have Sabak’s defenders clear a space six paces square before commandeering the Witchfinder Auditor’s pen and a bottle of rubbing alcohol from a medic’s first aid kit, and mixing the ink into the bottle.

The lines he traces on the brick are faint from the dilution, but solid and quick drying in the heat. It doesn’t take him long to have the same circular pattern of whorls and lines on the uneven ground as he sketched beneath the rug in the retro-inspired family home entryway only a week ago. One week.

Goddess, it’s only been a week…

…and It _still_ takes long enough for one of the Rito to move from circling the Molduga to circling our precarious position. Not landing, talking, finding out what we might need and communicating that to someone who could help, because that would be _useful_.

“Have the line get ready to run.” He says, and disappears down the stairs. The signal goes out, and even though no one moves, they prepare.

A few moments and minor eternity later, Kaya jogs out on the sand, yelling profanities that have Tetra blushing and many of the Gerudo around us chuckling. It’s certainly a very Kaya way to go about attracting the Molduga’s attention, and I find myself smiling in spite of my worry.

That falls the moment it starts to work. Ripples rise in the sand as the Molduga begins its approach, and Kaya slows. Stills.

Glows.

The ground explodes loudly enough that I barely hear the descending diatonic scale signaling his return, but I don’t have to hear it when I’ve been waiting, watching, and anticipating the strands of brilliant blue light gathering to outline the form of my Sheik as he appears in the bounds of the inked circle.

His foot smudges the lines as the old brick crumbles beneath his weight, but he’s solid, and the Molduga has surfaced. The warriors attack with a ferocity that defies explanation…and it’s _still_ not enough.

_It’s not enough._

No.

The head bends, flippers scuttling, as the Molduga begins to dive.

_No._

_“NO!”_ Kaya cries out, hoarse and raw and terrified, eyes not on the battle itself, but behind me.

“QUAKE!” Mistress Shabonne shouts, the word echoing over the sands like a thunderclap, and the world stills.

The ground rumbles.

The pillar shakes.

Everything flips, jumping sideways and backward and driving the entire deployment to our collective knees. Weapons clatter. People shout. The shockwave ripples out.

The Molduga flies in the air like a poorly tossed balloon.

Lands on its spine.

Dies in a burst of foul smoke and ashen Malice, covering the sand in glistening organs and glittering Amber Relics…and a barge, and seven bodies.

“_Fuck_, no! _No!_” Kaya moans, covering his mouth with both hands, eyes wide and glowing a preternatural red, staring at the massive dune about half a kilometer to the north-west as it…gets bigger.

No. Not bigger. _Closer_.

_Fast_.

Four, perhaps five times the height of the pillar we all stand on, stretching out to the north and east as far as I can see. Hundreds of…no, _thousands_…maybe _millions_ of tons of sand and rock and clay falling in on itself. Heading towards us…and Sabak. Sabak, lying low in the desert and surrounded by dunes big enough to be small mountains. The newest city in the Gerudo provinces, and home to a half a million souls. Or more.

“I’m sorry.” Kaya whispers as he grabs my shield, shoving Tetra into my arms... “Tye, stay with Sorelia! Regan, with me!” …and Jumps off the edge, bounding down to each corner landing on the stairway and _towards _the wall of sand.

“Kaya!” I holler, moving to follow, but Tetra’s hand on my arm stops me.

“Together.” Is all she says. I nod.

Together it is.

We run.

And we’re not alone. Three of Shabonne’s mages and a half dozen warriors with swords and shields are hot on our heels, taking the stairs three and four at a time. Another full squadron follows not far behind. Without the aetheric base the two former _esclavin_ can draw from, we’re far enough behind them that I don’t hear any of the conversation between Kaya and Regan, only see the results.

Two shields planted in the sand, with Regan’s sword bracing one, Regan himself bracing the other, both of them glowing with three of Sheik’s Spirit Orbs on each shield’s boss. Sheik himself is…dancing, despite either his lips splitting again or a nosebleed that trails down his chin, completely ignored. The billowing arms of his dress drape loose and long, brushing the sand as he moves. Snapping in the wind as the sky grows dark overhead, and he dances. Scraping lines in the sand, his hair is a golden streamer behind him, the tie lost in the storm, and he dances.

We run. Grit stings my eyes. Catches in my teeth.

The Rito follow, flapping hard against the squall.

He stops, a plume of sand rising around his feet.

Braces himself. Raises his hand in the darkening air, fingers straight and outstretched. The multicolored beads in his hair, on his wrists, around his neck, tucked into his clothing all rise, glowing like Solstice lights against the approaching dark. Some of them shoot horizontally to adhere to the faces of the warriors’ shields as they bring them up and buttress them in an expanding v, the rest spreading out even further. Back, and out, and _up_.

“ - - - “ Kaya shouts something into the tempest. Something I can’t hear. Something I can’t see. Something I can’t stop.

Something that cuts the moving mountain in two.

\--

_“You can’t stop an avalanche.” She sniffles._

_“But I can.” He chokes. “I _can_.”_

_“Could you, then?” She asks, ruthlessly logical. “Or would it have just killed you, too?”_

_“I…_yes_, but…”_

_\--_

The sand and earth and stone flow by on either side, crashing against the successive, glittering, aetherically reinforced shields forming a massive series of levies, twisting back on itself over the curved top edge. Stinging my skin. My eyes water. I know what he’s doing…and so do the mages, who layer their own shields with his against the steadily growing mass. Diverting it around the pillar, around the city, instead of trying to stop it. Spreading it out.

Sand, not snow, but...

“Together!” Tetra roars, calling on her own rarely-used but regularly practiced magic to be heard over the cacophonous surge. To be understood, no matter which language is used. The warriors obey, lending their strength to the few mages they have. Moving as one, with one purpose, and one goal.

And it’s _not enough_. With the whole world roaring, I can _sense_ the wards start to crack more than hear or see or feel it happen, and move to put my hands on Kaya’s back to support him as he buckles beneath the strain. His nose _is_ bleeding. Sweat soaks his hair, and he quirks his lips at me in an almost smile before closing red rimmed red eyes to focus on holding the levy cutting the avalanche of sand and stone in two to the exclusion of everything else. Letting the other mages catch and redistribute the Force of the sand slide.

Letting me take his weight. Letting Tetra brace us both. I open myself for her to use the magic that I have and choose to ignore, and she uses it to stabilize the upper rim and hold her own point both, all by herself.

And it’s _still_ not enough. With a sharp crack, the southern-most point of the outer levy shatters, the warrior holding their shield in place rolling out of the way just in time, then having to scramble further as the sand flows inward through the break. The mage she was supporting is down, dazed and drained, but alive. I can Kaya’s whimper, turn to him once more, see the trail of blood trace down his face from ear to jaw to throat, feel the pop as he pushes himself to hold the rest, to keep going, to _shield_.

To be a shield. A Sheik. _Riparo_. The _ultimate _shield.

Feel the strain it causes shudder through his bones. Hold him up. Feel the sand trickling on my shoulder and filling my boots, breathing some of it in as the cracks in the ward spread. Know that it’s not enough.

It’s_ not enough._

“Please, please, _please_ _stop_!” Tetra whispers, dropping her section at the end of the levies to reinforce Kaya’s keystone setting. Brushes her hand onto Kaya’s back, deceptively gentle, between both of mine. Her blunt fingered hand, un-manicured for the first time I can remember…it shines. Glows.

Explodes.

A miniature sun is born there in the desert, holding the cascade at bay. Pushing it back. Pushing it _through_. Shattering the levies and shields and everything beyond in a burst of brilliant and blinding, beautiful light. Banishing the darkness, obliterating all doubt, leaving only awe.

Blinking shadowed spots and inverted images away, the silence is loud in my ears. Deafening, until the cheers erupt from the crowd buried to the knee or deeper in the dirt behind us. Sand piled high on either side…but stable. Stopped. Still. Sheik lets out a small, disbelieving bark of laughter, and relaxes into my hold with a sigh. Tetra gasps, dropping her hand. I chuckle, awed by them both.

_We did it_.

Together.

We did it!

Tilting my chin to the sky, I breathe in dust filled air, and smile. _We did it_.

We’re _safe_.

“_No!”_ Tetra cries, and my laughter dies in my throat, because Kaya sighed, but hasn’t inhaled again, since.

Kneeling against me in the sand that’s piled over his boots, he’s smiling softly. His face is peaceful in a way I’ve never seen before.

Heavy against my hands. Not heavy enough. Not breathing.

Heart not beating. Silent and so, so still.

When I move my hands from his shoulders, he falls over. Doesn’t catch himself. Eyes dull. Face slack. Just like mom, when…

No.

_No._

“…Kaya?” I croak, my voice hoarse and high and tight and small. I _just_ found him again. Found them both. He can’t just…

…nothing.

Shaking him does _nothing_.

“Link! Stop it!” Tetra hollers, slapping me across the face. Making me drop him back into the dirt. Limp. Like a doll.

“Come on, Kaya. Don’t do this now. You promised!” She chokes, laying him flat on his back, arms at his sides. Fingers on his throat, under his nose, head on his chest, testing for a pulse, a breath. Finding none. Tilting his chin up. Putting her lips on his despite the drying blood still staining his face, his mouth. Two breaths.

Together, just like Malon taught us on that summer day so long ago.

My hands automatically fall to his chest, feeling his slender ribs, finding the center between them. Press down firmly. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.

Press, press, press. Over and over and over. Feel something crunch. Ignore it. Don’t stop. Not until I count to thirty.

Two breaths. Watch for movement. A beat, a breath. _Anything_. The warriors around us, yes. The man between us, no.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty.

Two breaths. Nothing.

One, two, three…

Two breaths.

Nothing.

_Nothing._

Something cold and wet falls on the back of my hands.

Tetra’s hands, warm and soft and strong, slide beneath mine. Move with intent. Rise and fall like his chest doesn’t.

I…

“_Move! Move, move, move!”_ The medic that tended to his burns shouts, shoving me out of the way and tearing open the stained lacings of his dress even further. Gartan bumps Tetra over, and helps place one of the thin pads coiling from his bag on Kaya’s boney chest while the medic places the other.

I definitely broke his ribs. He’s lost enough weight that I can see exactly where.

“_Stand clear!”_ She shouts, and I move as far back as I can. Maybe a half step.

I needed to do it, to make sure I was pressing hard enough.

He needs to _breathe_.

“_Shock advised_.” The mechanical voice of the portable A.E.D. intones, and hands retract. Another Gerudo warrior – Jules’ shieldmate – pushes the button. “_Shock delivered. Start C.P.R._”

They do. Thirty compressions. Two breaths.

I need him to live.

“_Shock advised_.”

I _need_ him.

“_Clear!_” The gathered crowd is silent. The button is pushed.

“_Shock delivered. Continue C.P.R.”_

He _can’t…_

Thirty compressions.

“…Kaya…_please...._” I sniffle. Beg. Tetra covers her mouth.

Nothing.

Two breaths.

Aside from the two medics working, and the steady mechanical beep of the A.E.D., no one moves, watching, silent, mages and warriors alike.

Nothing.

Thirty compressions. Another wet crunch.

I can’t watch anymore. I _can’t_. Tetra lets me bury my face in her shoulder and holds me close.

Just because I can hide from the sight doesn’t mean I can hide from the sounds. I hear her sob. Someone says something in Gerudo, hard and hissed and urgent. I gasp in a breath – damp and thick and far too tight – my own heart thundering in my chest.

Just because I can’t watch doesn’t mean I don’t listen closely and hope against hope. That my heart doesn’t stutter every time the medic’s hands press down in a desperate attempt to get his to do the same. That I don’t pray for a miracle that I _know_ I don’t deserve…

…but he _does_.

Oh, Hylia, _please_.

_Please._

Two breaths. A barge pulls up. Black clad reinforcements pile out. A pause. The medics adjust.

He deserves every happiness…

A dozen hands lift. Carry. Secure. Like cargo.

…not this...

“_Continue C.P.R.”_

…never this.

The medic exhales heavily, and continues.

_Nothing_.

Thirty compressions.

Two breaths.

And nothing happens.

_Nothing_.

Tetra holds me as the barge rushes towards Sabak, Sand Seals barking alarm at the bow, flag up at the stern, frantic motion in between, and silence at the heart of it all. Silence that my tears can’t cover as they trail down my chin to soak into my shirt.

I can only place my trust in strangers, place myself in her arms, and pray to a Goddess that I’m no longer certain even exists.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My darlings, my dearest, my devoted readers…please keep in mind that there IS a happy-ish ending to The Calamity is Calling, though Unleavened is literally without levity. It does get better. Video-game mechanics are a thing.
> 
> As to the warning for Major Character Death…for Unleavened, yeah. Dead. Committed not alive. You’re going to have to wait for the next installment for the video-game mechanics/amazing medical treatments we have and kind of take for granted in the modern day to take effect, and even then...yikes. And oof. But also video game mechanics.
> 
> As of this point, though, I only have a couple chapters of the next installment rewritten so as not to destroy the mechanics of this particular story as they have manifested in this particular alternate-universe. I will do my very best to pump out at least the first chapter of that two weeks after the last one of Unleavened, but if it doesn't happen because of reasons, there WILL be side-stories that flesh more of this universe out a bit at the appropriate time. I won't leave you hanging.
> 
> Those side stories may get their own compilation, so I can leave Crumbs as just expansions of chapters from the main storyline, though that would necessitate thinking of yet another title, and, well...we'll see.
> 
> Comments and Kudos are love, even if it's just incoherent keyboard smash!
> 
> Tenpointson/Torr <3


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